


Reverberation

by Jaye_Voy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Content, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Gen, Language, Not Black Panther Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: After Captain America: Civil War, what happens next?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually post such a long author's note, but I noticed that there are some very intense folks who read stories in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU).
> 
> To avoid pointless debates in the comments, these are the premises of this story:
> 
> * Everything seen in Captain America: Civil War (CA: CW) is story canon, except for the mid-credits Wakanda scene. (Bucky does not go into cryo.)  
> * The Accords are as stated [here](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Sokovia_Accords). They cover everyone who is enhanced, foreign or domestic. This includes the mandatory registration, assessment, and tracking of all enhanced individuals. Because the cover of the Accords seen in CA: CW included both Registration and Deployment, the signers of the Accords have agreed to all provisions within it.  
> * Based on RDJ’s take on the pen scene and the fact that Ross presented the Accords as a “take it or leave it” proposition, Tony was exaggerating the Avengers’ ability to change the Accords in order to get Steve to sign. (Tony was talking about filing motions—there’s no guarantee those motions would be accepted.) According to RDJ, “[Tony’s] really trying everything from great earnestness to outright manipulation, emotional manipulation to try to get Cap to just make this, to swing the vote.”  
> * Steve was suggesting the possibility of signing a revised Accords, not ready to sign on the dotted line in the pen scene. (If nothing else, it would have been physically impossible. The pens in the box looked like the kind you need to dip in ink. And there was no paper in the room.)  
> * From what I’ve read of the CA: CW commentary, Tony would have gone on a murder hunt for Bucky regardless of when and/or how he was told about his parents’ deaths.  
> * Based on the number of folks swarming around the Avengers compound at the end of Age of Ultron versus the ghost town of CA: CW, I’m guessing Tony sent everybody home for a few weeks after Lagos to let the Avengers deal with the fallout.
> 
> Please don’t attempt to argue the premises. If you disagree with them, then "Reverberation" is simply not the story for you.
> 
> =====
> 
> Disclaimer: Captain America: Civil War and all related characters and concepts are the property of Disney, Marvel, et al. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is PG-13 for adult themes, violence, and language.

The bomber’s body slackened to unconsciousness. T’Challa nudged the man’s gun farther away and eased his grip. Not indulging in even a moment of brutal imaginings. Of how easy it would be to end this life within his grasp…

His father’s killer would not die by his hand. His vow of vengeance would remain unfulfilled. But T’Challa could not believe his father would greet this decision with disappointment.

The end to T’Challa’s quest brought no satisfaction, no relief. The flame of rage burning so hot within him had guttered out. Leaving his soul as empty and barren as the snow-cast land around him.

How welcome the sudden interruption of his thoughts.

Footsteps approached like declarations, the firm and steady cadence belying any attempt at subterfuge.

T’Challa laid the unconscious bomber upon his side and shifted to a crouch. As T’Challa pivoted to face the concealing slab of rock, the footsteps stopped.

“My weapons are in their holsters. Permission to approach?” A woman’s voice, clear and crisp as the mountain air. How curious.

A brow lifted as T’Challa considered. “Permission granted.”

The footsteps resumed at a faster pace. Within seconds the interloper appeared. A gray parka enshrouded her figure, belted with twin pistol holsters and diagonally crossed by the strap of a small black duffel bag. Scarf, gloves, hat, and goggles rendered her anonymous. Her head jerked to indicate the bomber. “He down, or done?”

“He will recover.” T’Challa lowered his heels and rose to standing. “I must inquire: Who are you and what is your interest in him or this…incident?” 

He did not abandon his ready stance. The woman was either an ally—to Stark or to Rogers—come to offer aid, or an enemy seeking to profit from the conflict. More likely the former, but at T’Challa’s feet lay a most painful lesson on the folly of assumption.

A gloved hand pushed up the woman’s goggles, pulled down her scarf to hang around her neck. The move revealed blue eyes set in a face of somber beauty. A sharp gaze, but assessment rather than aggression. “Maria Hill. And that’s…complicated.” 

She gestured to the bomber. “May I?”

T’Challa stepped back with a nod. With deft moves Hill pulled a thermal blanket from the bag slung across her torso and snapped the material flat. She knelt and rolled the bomber onto the surface, then swiftly searched the man’s clothing. A small pile of personal effects was soon unearthed—including another gun. She leaned over to retrieve the weapon T’Challa abandoned and added it to her gleanings.

With a huff Hill touched fingertips to her ear. “Zemo’s clean. I’m gonna prep for transport.”

A snicking sound and the dull shine of metal accompanied the closure of thick cuffs around Zemo’s wrists, binding them behind his back. Hill then lifted Zemo’s head with a certain gentleness as she used an eyemask and padded headphones to effectively isolate Zemo from his surroundings. 

Blue eyes sought T’Challa’s as Hill came to her feet. “As far as I’m aware, neither of us actually got clearance for this little jaunt. And your craft looks more like a fighter than a passenger jet.”

Another nod was all T’Challa offered. These were facts that required no answer. He _had_ no answers. Would not, until he had time to reflect upon the hidden truths of the Accords that this breach of them revealed.

A wry quirk of Hill’s mouth shared her own opinion of their current predicament. “So with your permission, your majesty, I’d like to be the one to convey Zemo to the authorities.”

Hill’s arrival and offer seemed a boon from Sekhmet herself. If Zemo dwelled in silence, T’Challa’s own unsanctioned presence here may remain concealed. “I can assure you, Ms. Hill, I have not a single objection.”

The creak of metal spun his attention to the widening maw of the door.

Who had won the fierce battle waged within the depths of this secret base?

And what was the price of that victory?

****************

The soldiers reacted to their audience before their first steps onto the snow. Captain Rogers released Barnes, straightened, and limped forward. Shifted to put himself between Barnes and any threat offered by Hill and T’Challa. Yet his lifted hands were spread palms down. Not surrender, but perhaps an appeal for calm, for a delay of further battle. With Rogers’ helmet hooked on his belt it was easy to see the blood drying from various wounds, the bloom of swelling bruises upon pale skin.

Barnes seemed in an even graver state of injury and weariness. Yet he chose to afford his friend a subtle form of protection, swaying on his feet but shuffling clear of his fellow soldier. Offering T’Challa a path to vengeance that would not endanger Rogers. Resignation weighed upon Barnes’ face, in his voice, in his eyes as his gaze sought T’Challa’s. “I didn’t kill your father.”

Both men looked somehow naked in the absence of their signature possessions—the shield and the arm.

T’Challa felt the first, faint flicker of embers within. But warmth. To see this bond of warriors. In actions that conveyed a depth and devotion that sparked thoughts of W'Kabi, T'Challa's own brother-in-arms. “I am aware.”

He gestured toward where Zemo lay behind the rock. “The architect of this misery did not escape.”

Rogers nodded, affirmation and gratitude. But his watchfulness remained unabated as he glanced between T’Challa and Hill. “I can’t let you take Bucky in. Not after what happened. It’s not safe—for him or anyone else.”

Hill’s mouth quirked again. “That isn’t the mission.”

A kind of puzzled welcome flickered across Rogers’ expression as Hill confirmed her allegiance. “Good to know, Maria.”

He gestured for Barnes to rejoin him, frowning as he once more slung Barnes’ arm over his own shoulder. “The others?”

Hill shook her head as gloved hands lifted to enclose the duffel strap. “Total blackout. They surrendered, then disappeared.”

“I know where they are.” T’Challa let their attention rest upon him a moment as he weighed intentions, choices, consequences. As both king and warrior. “I can supply you with coordinates. Your team was transported to a facility currently secreted deep beneath the ocean waves.”

“They’re on the Raft?” Hill’s brows lifted, then lowered as her mouth tightened into a grim line. “I thought that project was scrapped after—”

She interrupted herself as she lifted fingertips to her ear. “Acknowledged.” Jerked her chin at Rogers and Barnes. “We don’t have much time—are you ready to go?”

“Where?” Rogers glanced back at the door as if that held the answer to why.

Hill returned her attention to Zemo, speaking over her shoulder as she knelt to confirm his condition, then gather his possessions into the duffel. “Safehouse. Good for at least a week. After that, undecided. Maybe one of the countries that didn’t sign the Accords—”

“Wakanda.” T’Challa’s own spine stiffened along with the others’. Not with surprise, but with purpose. Although he did indulge in a small smile at the shocked expressions. “It would surely be one of the last places your pursuers would look, would it not?”

“Not if that guy talks.” Barnes had no free arm to gesture at Zemo, but his point was clear enough.

“True, but that does not change my offer.” T’Challa found the risk acceptable. Zemo may speak of these events, but T’Challa did not believe it would be so. The man already seemed as one with his silent dead. 

And offering sanctuary would provide some small measure of recompense to T’Challa’s own part in their current misfortunes. His head lifted. In this decision, he truly accepted the mantle of king.

“Thank you.” Rogers paused, shook his head at some internal debate. Then seemed to draw himself to attention. “But this might: We’ll do what we can within the system—but if this becomes an extraction…”

T’Challa acknowledged Rogers’ honesty with a single nod. “Your team acted in the service of the greater good. I will not allow any of you to simply ‘disappear’.” 

Especially in light of T’Challa’s own growing disquiet. Now that the haze of rage had dissipated, he could sense that something was not right with recent events. Beyond Zemo’s revenge-fueled deception. But T’Challa—and the others—would need time to discover it.

Rogers’ expression warmed as he accepted the offer with a murmur of thanks. Then he glanced at his companion, brows raised. “Buck?”

Barnes, it seemed, possessed a more suspicious nature. Narrowed eyes assessed T’Challa for a handful of breaths before Barnes offered his own nod of agreement.

The soldiers’ pivot toward their craft was halted by Hill. “Uh-uh. I’m keeping the jet.” 

She pointed over her shoulder toward the left side of the formation holding the bunker’s entrance. “Your ride’s that way, Cap. Don’t leave without your pilot.”

Rogers stopped. “It’s just Steve, now.”

Hill swiveled on her knees to face Rogers. Her eyes flickered over him as she swallowed. “And your shield?”

T’Challa’s breath paused, muscles taut and poised. For what? The question posed no danger. Nor would its answer.

A complicated array of expressions ghosted over Rogers’ face, ending at peace. “Tony needs it more. You’ll make sure he gets back OK?”

At Hill’s nod, the men resumed their weary march. T’Challa found his gaze following them, held by the image of friendship and burdens shared.

Hill continued her pattern of timely interruption. “You better get going yourself, your majesty.”

When he turned she was standing. One outstretched arm held a small notepad and pen. “Whatever you can give me—coordinates, phone numbers, a contact frequency…”

T’Challa accepted the offerings and flipped open the notepad. Unsurprised that he was met with blank lines—this woman seemed to hold her secrets in steady hands. Swift notations covered several pages. “You will no doubt be able to differentiate between the middle of the ocean and the middle of Africa without labeling, yes?”

Hill snorted as she retrieved her belongings and waved him on his way.

Halfway to his vessel T’Challa realized the lightness of his steps.

****************

Bucky slumped. Cold ramp against legs. Jet like the one Steve and he arrived in. His eyes swept the landscape—seek, check, protect. Only type of patrolling sustainable. Cold air sharp on skin, small pain against bruises, cuts, fractures, breaks… Throb-throb-throb where Stark’s boot had almost bashed his head in. Matching crackle-crackle-shock of nerves in the arm—in what was left of the arm. Pulsed with his heartbeat, still jackrabbit-panic-fast. His right hand—his only hand—warmed the grip of a pistol fully loaded, safety off. 

The day—this long day—stripped him back to essentials. Watch. Wait. Fight. Flee.

No scent on the breeze. Sounds of Steve preparing for takeoff. Sky, snow, rock. Two sets of tracks at the base of the ramp. One trail overwritten by Steve’s and his journey to the jet. The other tracks heading west. Bootprints provided no intel other than short-to-average, likely female.

The sound/vibration of Steve’s footsteps against the metal floor plates. Bucky straightened to attention.

“T’Challa’s gone. We’re ready for takeoff. I set the perimeter alarm.” Steve hopped off the edge of the ramp, supplies secured. Bottles of water, protein bars. A machine gun slung across his back...instead of the shield. “Trade you.”

Steve, safe. Bucky dropped shoulders, breathed deeper. Watched Steve open one of the bottles. Exchanged the pistol for the water, drank. Watched Steve unwrap the end of one of the protein bars. Exchanged bottle for bar. Bit, chewed, swallowed.

Bucky accepted another bar. Settled into the sounds of their chewing. Settled into the wash of memories. Memories of Steve made deeper, broader, swifter. Flashes of other times of waiting, other rations, the aftermath of other battles.

When the ripples faded he shifted. Must figure out how to compensate for the loss of the arm. And yet, and yet… The arm had been Hydra’s. The fist. He’d been Hydra’s Fist. Memories he didn’t welcome. The arm and all of the violence. The arm and all of the deaths. 

He remembered them all. Spent the last few years drowning in their faces, their eyes. And yet…

Even if Hydra’s words remained. Even if the memories remained. Hydra’s arm was gone. Bucky sensed a kind of release, a freedom.

But he wouldn’t, couldn’t ask how Steve felt. Without the weight of the shield.

“Do we need to wrap this or something?” Steve’s question jerked Bucky’s head toward his friend.

Steve’s eyes were focused on “this”—the stump. Bucky reached back years to decipher Steve’s expression: worry, sorrow, apology.

The phantom pain from the ripped off—burned off—wires and sensors was part of the jazz-band-bang-thrum of pain of his whole body. “Nah. It’ll keep.”

Steve’s forehead creased. Ever-present eyebrow furrow deepening with a frown. But only a nod.

Didn’t insist. Didn’t ask again. Damned creepy, how Steve didn’t ask again. Stubborn punk, Steve. Kept his trap mostly shut all the way to this hellhole. Steve, who must have a hundred questions log-jammed in his throat about the where, when, how of anything, everything. Of Bucky’s current thoughts. About life since the Potomac.

And of course the why. Why Bucky didn’t make contact. Reach out to the only person who’d seen him fall. Who’d known him for all the years before. Bucky turned his head to catch Steve’s gaze. Hold it. “You haven’t asked.”

Steve stared back. Blue eyes bright even in the shadows beneath the jet. Long sigh. “Figured if you wanted me to know something, you’d tell me.”

Bucky dropped his head, looked away. What did he want Steve to know?

A beep from the jet’s interior. Spike of relief. Bucky crouched to peer around the ramp.

Steve dropped the trash, handed back the pistol. Swung his own gun into position.

Ready for company.

****************

From his angle, Bucky could see their visitor approach. Definitely female. Wool coat, fur hat, knee-high boots. All black. A grade-school textbook illustration of Russia come to life, except for the duffel slung along her back and the weapons in her belt.

A grunt brought Steve’s attention to the sight. Steve straightened, released the gun to swing on its strap. “Nat.”

Bucky stepped beside him, muscles tightening. Fingers spasming against the gun. Nat, woman at the hangar. Who’d shot her own teammate to help their escape. Nat, the Black Widow. Catsuit-clad, deadly. Nat, the woman on the table, his metal hand gleaming around her throat. Nat, the obstacle in the sniper scope, variable to be calculated before making a fatal shot.

Nat, red hair and sleek lines. But this woman…she was familiar.

Her face was familiar. Nat, pointed chin and wide cheekbones framed in black fur. Green eyes. Lifting to his, lifting the distance from child’s height and the face fuller, paler, framed in fur… “Dancer.”

The word turned both Steve and Nat to face him. Bucky said it again, eyes on the woman. “Dancer.”

Dancer’s—Nat’s brows lifted. Then she gave a short nod. Hinting smile. “You remembered.”

Steve’s head swiveled between the two of them. Hands clenched and released. “You know each other?”

“Knew, kinda.” Bucky shook his head, but that didn’t bring the memory into focus. “Years ago?”

“January 1992.” Nat looked to Steve, now. Apology in spread hands. “I wasn’t sure. It was a long time ago, my first days in the Red Room.”

Her expression hardened. “Days I don’t like to remember.”

Steve did one of his little internal talks. Familiar. Sighed and shook his head. “OK. We don’t really have time to discuss this, right? We need to get out of here.”

“Actually, we have to wait a few more minutes.” Nat strode closer, gestured them toward the ramp. “Tony’s on his way to the surface. I rigged the place with explosives while doing a little scavenging. We have to make sure he and Maria are clear before we bury it.”

She rested a gloved hand on Steve’s forearm. Steve’s other hand grasped her elbow. The touch—delicate, deliberate. Flashed to Steve’s awkward dread at handling glass and porcelain, back in the day. And the way Steve sketched the edges of shadows.

After a long moment, Steve let go and stepped back. “Thanks, Nat. I know this cost you.”

“Not as much as you might think.” Nat shrugged. Her gaze drifted to Bucky, who stilled under her stare. “And it was worth it—for this.”

She reached into her coat and withdrew…Bucky swayed. 

“Easy, Buck.” Steve, anchor. Grip firm around Bucky’s bicep. Bucky leaned into solid, into warm. Eyed the book in Nat’s gloved hands. Red leather, black star. Pages of agony.

Bucky breathed. Jet, snow, rock. Steve. Nat. Book. He nodded—shocked, grateful, afraid—then stepped away and up the ramp, footsteps ringing. 

Drowning out the echoes of his screams.

****************

Steve held back a moment to gather up the trash. Glanced over as Nat lingered. Her hair and eyes a vivid splash against the chiaroscuro landscape. “Dancer?”

He kept the question gentle, curious. Understood more than anyone why Nat may not have wanted to pull on that particular string, stretched more than two decades.

Nat’s lids swept down for a deep breath, then she regarded him with those eyes that were so much older than her years. “In the Red Room, we didn’t get outside much. Playing was for children—not assassins in the making. But I was still too young to truly understand what I’d become a part of.”

Her jaw clenched. “I thought I was in _ballet school_.”

A pang shot through Steve for the innocent girl Nat had been. For the man Bucky once was. Both so transformed, and neither asking for the changes. He nudged Nat’s arm with his own. A reminder of the here and now. And that she wasn’t alone.

Nat flicked a small smile in reward. “I snuck out one night, after it snowed. So beautiful…and not so cold that I couldn’t enjoy it. I danced, by myself. For myself. And then I saw him.”

Steve managed to hold still, to give Nat her moment to reminisce. Held back an anxious demand for the rest of the story.

“He was watching me.” She shrugged. “Just standing there, staring. In a shirt, no hat, no coat, nothing for the weather. He probably wandered away from his keepers and nobody noticed.” 

“So it wasn’t deliberate? He wasn’t part of the Red Room?” Steve released the question with the tension built along his shoulders. Some part of him had dreaded hearing that Bucky was mixed up in the horrors that filled Nat’s past.

“No, I only saw him—spoke with him—the one time.” Nat sidled closer, voice hushed as she shared this secret. “He approached and said to me, ‘Little dancer. Never forget. You’re more than what those bastards make you’.”

Steve swallowed. Couldn’t blame the cold for the sudden sting in his eyes.

The moment broke when Nat stepped back, her lips twisting in a rueful smirk. “It was gibberish to me. I had only started learning English. I didn’t know what he said until later. But I remembered him, his fierceness. And that at least one person thought I could be more than just a weapon.”

“Until Clint, and Nick.” Steve lifted a hand to her shoulder, willing the brief touch to say _And me_.

Message received, from the dimple that flashed and faded.

Steve’s gut twisted as he stepped back and braced himself for a less-than-pleasant revelation. “I don’t know when you came in, but Tony…” 

He grimaced. “Zemo had proof of that rumor Zola showed us about Howard Stark. Graphic proof…that the car crash was no accident and that the Winter Soldier was the assassin.”

“Figured it was something like that.” Nat closed the distance again, wrapped an arm around him. Her grip as always surprising in its strength. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

He let himself lean, just for a moment. “So am I.”

A few breaths later she tightened her hold, then slid free, fingertips trailing. “Come on. Let’s see if we can blow this joint—as you oldsters used to say.”

The duffel swung with her turn up the ramp. Steve followed and dumped his trash before flipping the switch on the hydraulics. The ramp started to rise, closing out the cold and snow. 

He paused to share a nod with Bucky—so much to say, but no words to offer. Not yet.

Steve stifled a weary groan as he slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “So what exactly is the mission, Nat? I’m grateful that Maria and you are here, but you’re taking a huge risk, violating the Accords.”

He swiveled his chair to face Nat. Could only hope that she still understood. Was still willing to understand. “And I’m more against them than ever. Especially after we’ve seen them in action. How we stay together…it matters.”

“Yeah.” Nat tapped a few commands into the console, then leaned back to rest her heels along the edge. “We backed the wrong play, signing. I thought the Accords were like a car…turns out they’re a bullet train. And Ross is dragging the rest of us along as clueless passengers.”

“Or cargo.” The bitterness in Bucky’s voice winced along Steve’s spine.

Nat sighed, nodded. “Only way to change direction on this thing now is to get ahead of it and throw some switches, shift over to a new track. But priority goes to finding the rest of the team.”

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing at the sting of bruises and strains and the pull of dried blood. “T’Challa said they were on something called the Raft.” 

“What?” Nat’s boots dropped as she spun the pilot’s chair. Shock dissolved into a frown. “That explains a lot.”

“It’s some kind of floating prison? How do we not know about this?” Frustration clenched Steve’s jaw, his fists. Didn’t want to imagine what kind of treatment would be delivered in a place literally sunk in secrets.

“It’s not supposed to exist.” Nat’s brows drew together as she paused, likely searching her memory for the relevant info. “Fury mentioned it, back in the day. Ross designed the Raft after the Hulk made his debut. But the project was scrapped in favor of the cell aboard the helicarrier.”

Steve grunted. “At least we know where it is. We’ll need to get eyes and ears in there, in case we need to pull everyone out.”

“If Maria’s got the intel, she’s already planning how to make that happen.” The flash of a message on one of the console screens caught Nat’s attention. “Here we go.”

She pulled a small tablet computer from her pocket. Tapped once, twice, thrice.

The muffled sounds of explosions echoed the vibrations shuddering through the jet. Then they were lifting off and into the gray skies as Nat set their destination. Steve felt his breaths ease as they made their escape.

“Next item on the agenda?” Steve offered a small smile, so damned grateful. For what Nat and Maria had done. For being the friends they were. 

“Get you lawyered up. And cleaned up.” Nat’s wrinkling nose paired with the smallest of smirks. 

Steve’s smile held as he glanced back for Bucky’s nod.

They were safe. For now.

****************

The elevator ride seemed a hell of a lot shorter on the way down.

Tony leaned against one wall, staring at the shield. It lay where he’d flung it, gleaming dully in reproach. Red, white, and blue-fucking-hoo.

His thoughts looped and loped and jiggered. Primary systems offline—backup systems directed to servo-motor assist and internal heating—fucking cold down here—like cryo—creepy cryo corpses—dead as doornails—did they really nail doors, back in the dawn of whenever?—almost nailed that fucker—both those fuckers—goddamn weeble-wobble whack-a-mole Cap always popping back up—butting that giant spangled ass where it didn’t belong—keeping Tony from—keeping him from—

Tony almost murdered a man.

He shuddered, watched the metal grating flicker past as the elevator kept rising. Breathed in, breathed out. Kept his hands from scrabbling against armor that was too close coffin-like.

He’d killed people, sure. Hell, Ross would probably say that the Accords were built on the bones of Tony’s not-so-honored dead.

But this—this was—this was too close. This was—not something to think about right now.

Not when there was so much more to think about. Like Ross, and keeping the Secretary of the State of the Avengers Disunion Address in the dark about this little trip into Violationville.

Like Zemo, squirrelly bastard escaping out some bolt-hole during the battle royal.

Like what came next.

The elevator doors opened. He picked up the shield, so much heavier than vibranium should have been.

Like how to get the hell home.

Tony blinked. “Huh.”

Maria Hill leaned against the ramp of a quinjet, arms crossed and head cocked. Zemo was laid out on a thermal blanket—practically hog-tied at her feet. “Hey stranger, need a lift?”

“As a matter of fact…” Tony let the words trail off as he crunched his way across the snow, trying to guess what the hell was going on. Hill was as much of a cypher as she’d always been.

Remembered his note to himself after a particularly painful game: Never bet against the maybe-ex-agent. She had a poker face that rivaled Mount Rushmore—or Natalie Rushman aka Natasha Romanoff—for inscrutability.

And where was the Widow? In the wind after the clusterfuck in Leipzig. Leaping into air—falling—Rhodey falling—

Hill uncrossed and gestured at the far end of the blanket. “Can you give me a hand?” 

Tony tossed the shield into the jet, grunted as he picked up his end of the makeshift sling.

Resisted the urge to bash the Zemo-hammock into the walls as they stepped aboard. But tempted, so tempted. The fucker had to have something coming to him for the wrecking ball he’d smashed into Tony’s neatly organized world.

Fake world. Make-believe world. But neatly organized.

“OK, Tony, you can let go now.” Hill was giving Tony a side-eye that had him snapping to. He watched her shift Zemo’s cuffs to the front, heave the bastard into a seat, and lock him down.

“What’s with the cone of silence?” Tony didn’t have the energy to gesture as he dropped into the co-pilot’s seat. God, he could sleep for a week. Or seventy years, when maybe this would all make sense.

“What he doesn’t know, he can’t report on.” Hill’s shrug didn’t stop her from pulling off her gloves, firing up, and lifting off. “So where am I dropping you?”

“In the boondocks of wherever you’re headed. I can make my way home from there.” Could call a chopper or a jet or a suit. “Remind me of your excellent retrieval skills come bonus time.”

Hill’s grimace clenched Tony’s guts. More bad news on a banner day for it.

“Sorry, Tony, but this is just pick-up and delivery duty.” Blue eyes held his. “I’m heading out after this.”

Tony slumped further in the seat. He should really take off the armor. Or think about taking it off, at least. “Was it something I said?” 

“More like what will be said to me.” Hill’s mouth teased a hint of her sly grin. “I’m sure it was on my resume, but I helped smash oh, two, three very expensive helicarriers not too long ago. It makes me unpopular with certain segments of the D.C. population.”

“One segment named Ross?” Yeah, dropping that much military-industrial complex money and Capitol Hill ass-kissing in the Potomac probably didn’t leave the best impression.

“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual.” With a quick tug, Hill pulled off her hat and goggles. “Nick Fury was a secretive bastard, but a good man.”

She gave Tony a onceover. “And being able to work with you and the others—that was an honor and an opportunity I’ll always be grateful for. But…I won’t take orders from Thaddeus Ross.”

Tony took a moment to bask in the glow of the nice and shiny Thanks before he stretched out a foot to nudge Hill’s ankle. “C’mon, I won’t let the big bad wolf bother you. I’m gonna need your help getting the band back together.”

He sure as hell couldn’t do it alone.

Hill sighed, set the autopilot. Shifted her chair to show a face full of—Tony didn’t know what, but it wasn’t good. 

“Tony, the band—” Hill hmphed. “The _team_ is done. It was over the moment that you signed the Accords, knowing that the others wouldn’t agree to the terms. Those problems aren’t going away anytime soon.”

Well, of course. He knew that. Maybe. Tried not to think about that. Definitely. But had to ask. “So, the Accords. You think changing—you don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

The lights reflected in dark hair as Hill shook her head. “I don’t think it can be. The UN ratified their final version, so they’re not looking to make changes. Plus, you’re at a disadvantage.”

Hill’s hands lifted as if showing him the picture. “You try coming at this as Tony Stark, tech billionaire, and you’ll be accused of corruption or extortion—or worse. And as Iron Man…”

Tony didn’t think he could get any tenser. Surprise, there were a few notches left to go.

One hell of a big sigh ruffled Hill’s bangs. “Tony, if none of the Avengers had signed the Accords, that would have sent a powerful message—it would have given you some leverage. But as it is, I mean, you can try throwing your lawyers at it, but you read the terms and you agreed to them. Hopefully you’ll be able to abide by them.”

Tony snorted. “You mean, outside of this current flagrant violation.”

“Yeah.” Hill glanced at their prisoner. “Look, we’d better go cabin silent—I don’t trust Zemo not to wriggle out of something. And I don’t want him to have any more info than he’s already got.”

She reached over to give Tony an armored-arm squeeze. “Why don’t you settle in back and get some rest. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”

“Yeah.” But when Tony shifted, his wrist didn’t move under Hill’s suddenly bulldog-like grip. 

She offered a small smile. It wasn’t particularly happy, but that meant that she meant whatever message she was delivering. “Tony, be careful. Don’t forget what Ross did to Bruce. The Accords are changing things, causing gaps. And the gaps are where dark things slither in.”


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha shook her head as she lifted the tablet computer in her hand. A blurred reflection in the cherry dining table mirrored her action. 

She’d chosen a seat with her back to an interior wall. The other chairs sat silent sentinels as china and silver gleamed from the matching glass-fronted cabinet in one corner. Two sconces cast a golden glow against the cream painted walls, echoing the afternoon sunlight peeking around the edges of the drawn drapes.

Her fingertip swept the screen as she scrolled through more headlines and frowned. So few clues, and no sense to them.

The sound of footsteps in the hall jerked her head up. Instinct shot her free hand toward a pistol, but the familiarity of the tread had her relaxing before Steve appeared in the archway. She lifted her chin in a quick greeting. “All done?”

“Yes—sorry to take so long.” Steve approached and laid an envelope next to the flip phone already resting on the table. Tony’s name marched in careful letters across the front. 

Steve’s wounds still splashed livid against his skin. But he had cleaned up and changed into some of the clothes that Nat acquired during her contingency planning: jeans, boots, T-shirt, button-down overshirt. Nondescript colors in a vague attempt at blending in with average citizens.

Not unlike her own outfit. She smirked at the memory of their last attempt at suburban American stealth.

The reflection of Steve’s fingers flickered in the table’s polished surface as he indicated the phone. “Thank you for this. I’ll feel better, knowing that Tony can call for backup.”

“It’s important to keep the lines of communication open.” Natasha studied Steve’s face, arched an ironic eyebrow. “Nice of you to remember that, this time.”

Steve’s expressions tended to be quick and subtle, but not really hidden. Natasha’s theory was that Steve had been so ignored for so much of his life that at some point he stopped giving a shit what other people saw when they looked at him. 

Funny how it made no difference whether they looked at Steve Rogers or Captain America.

In any case, Natasha knew Steve wouldn’t leave the comment unquestioned when his focus sharpened. He pulled out a chair perpendicular to hers and settled sideways on it to face her. His lifted brows requested that she continue.

She didn’t bother to analyze the edge to her own voice. “I understand why you wouldn’t reach out to Tony, or the others.”

With a click the tablet hit the table as Natasha leaned forward. “But did you even think to call me?”

Natasha found herself matching Steve as he straightened. Watched as he glanced away as if reviewing events.

After a moment his gaze returned to her as he inhaled and exhaled, a long breath through his nose as he shook his head. “No. Sam and I discussed contacting Tony—figured he either wouldn’t believe us or wouldn’t be able to help because of the Accords.”

Steve’s fingers rested warm on the back of her wrist as his mouth thinned. “I’m sorry, Nat. We didn’t consider that option—only focused on the fastest way to get a team together and get to Siberia.”

Natasha nodded, dropped her lashes as she debated ending the conversation there. With her holding the clear upper hand.

But a grunt from Steve forced her to reassess. His wry smile told her he’d already figured things out even before he spoke. “And I’m sorry the ‘chance meeting’ you arranged in Leipzig went from a conversation to a brawl.”

She shrugged. “That wasn’t all on you.” 

Steve frowned. “I can’t help thinking—it seems like we haven’t had a chance to catch our breaths since Ross delivered his ultimatum. First with Peggy…” He swallowed, moved on. “Then the bombing and Zemo’s plot…”

A weary sigh seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d only had more time.”

Natasha allowed a small smile, thinking of the difference between Russian fatalism and American optimism. Or maybe just Steve Rogers stubbornness. “Doesn’t matter. Things went down how they did and we go from there.”

Steve huffed an acknowledgment. But his eyes warmed as he gave her wrist a quick squeeze. “Still…thank you for coming through when it counted—then and now.”

He lifted his hand away to smooth a thumb over one eyebrow. “I guess Sharon and you will be heading out soon. Any news yet?”

The reminder of her frustration pushed Natasha out of her chair. She paced to the foot of the table, pointing an accusing finger at the tablet. “I can’t figure out what kind of game Ross thinks he’s playing.”

Steve touched the tablet but didn’t pick it up. “Still nothing?”

“No—and yes.” Natasha stopped to cross her arms with a grimace. “The manhunt for Barnes is done. Gone. No explanation. And there’s no call for your head, or mine—no mention of the others surrendering—nothing.”

She let herself drop backward until her shoulders hit the wall. “Ross put out a statement calling Leipzig a training exercise gone wrong. A _training exercise_. Officially, we’re status quo from before all this went down. Sharon should probably check in—maybe she’s still in the clear.”

“And unofficially?” Steve’s brows furrowed as he took his own turn at guessing Ross’s strategy.

Natasha’s head thunked as she delivered her report to the ceiling—or to the laughing gods of espionage. “That’s what really scares me. There’s _nothing_. Nothing about the Raft. Nothing about its prisoners.”

She dipped her head to catch Steve’s gaze. “If T’Challa hadn’t told us where to find them…” She couldn’t finish the thought as her guts clenched. Didn’t want to think it.

“I wanna go and get them right now.” Steve stood like he meant it literally, all coiled muscles and knotted fists.

“I know.” Somehow seeing Steve’s stress acted like a safety valve, letting her own tension bleed out. “But we didn’t get a lawyer just to ignore her advice. Ninety-six hours—it’s not too much to ask to try and let the system work.”

At least, Natasha hoped it wasn’t.

Steve ran his hands through his hair as he moved. Chose his own perch against the archway—of course his shoulders took up most of the space. “I guess one good thing comes from it. If nobody acknowledges that there’s a prison, they can’t exactly squawk when there’s a prison break.”

“If it comes to that.” Again Natasha considered making this a stopping point. Everyone’s timing seemed off these days, including hers. And the next subject was not an easy one.

Steve confirmed that he was no slouch in the figuring things out department. With a slump of shoulders he went back to his seat, dropping into it the right way this time to rest his forearms on the table. “What else?”

********

“You’re not going to like it.” Better to put that out there at the start. Not that Natasha thought it would change the conversation.

Steve’s only response was his patented unimpressed look. Natasha could understand it—there wasn’t much that any of them had _liked_ in the last month. 

She pushed herself off the wall and drifted to the opposite end of the table. Rested a hip against the edge as her nails drifted across the wood, too lightly to mar the bright surface. “Have you given any thought to what’s going to happen?”

“We’ll get the rest of the team off the Raft—by whatever means necessary.” The tension in Steve’s jaw suggested that he was already aware his answer was too simple.

Natasha lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck, run her fingers through her hair. She didn’t usually indulge in such unnecessary movements, but she wanted Steve to know he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the situation. “In the short term, yes. But we have to start thinking long-term, map out a strategy that keeps us all out of Ross’s clutches and gets the world back on our side.”

“You think the whole world is against us?” Steve’s mouth twisted as if the words left a bitter taste on his tongue.

“I think that a lot of people—or at least, a lot of power brokers—got what they wanted out of the Accords.” That thought thinned Natasha’s own lips. If Maria was right about where things were headed… “And it’s not going to be easy to shift policies that are so very explicitly laid out.”

Steve expelled a sharp breath as he pushed his chair back and rose to his full height. Sharp blue eyes held hers. “I don’t know what you want from me, Nat.”

Natasha’s shoulders tightened as she slid to standing. “I want you to take a good, hard look at the hole we’re standing in and what we’ll have to do to climb out of it.”

“I thought I already had.” The quick flick of Steve’s hand—out to the side, then back—seemed like an unconscious wish to push away his thoughts or her words. “What do you want me to say? That it was wrong to go after Bucky? That it was wrong to try and stop Zemo? That it was wrong to reject the Accords?”

His eyes raked her as his body stiffened, turning rigid in rejection. “I can’t, Nat—I won’t. I won’t leave a man to be shot on sight or shipped off without even a hope of due process. I won’t stand aside while a terrorist gets ready to destroy the world. And I won’t sign my name and give a promise when I know there’s no chance in hell I’ll keep it. The Accords are _wrong_.”

“Yes!” Her hand slammed the table. “But damn it, Steve, that’s not enough.” 

They were breathing in sync—short, sharp, both ready to leap at each other. To fight, even when they were on the same side.

Natasha could almost laugh at the picture they made. How many times had two Avengers faced off in the last few days?

Steve took a step back, literal and figurative as he consciously relaxed. His fists opened, palms lifting as he shook his head and sighed his resignation. “What do you want from me?”

“I know you think you’re doing the right thing—I even agree with you.” Natasha let the crunch of the moment fade as well. Her brows furrowed as she pondered. How did you tell a man who sacrificed his life for a noble cause that his compass may still point true, but no one cared?

She lifted her gaze to Steve’s, fixed on those blue eyes that were so often open windows to her. She didn’t want to do this. She had to. “You grew up in a very different world. Clear targets and clean missions…” 

A corner of her mouth twitched. “At least, you knew that you were getting your hands dirty for a good reason.”

A shake of the head accompanied Steve’s frown. “I know times have changed. I—”

“Then you need to start acting like it.” Natasha let all the frustration of the last week roughen her voice, clench her jaw. “It’s time you take off your god-damned blinders and see things as they are, not as you think they should be.”

She jerked her hand to stop Steve before he answered—interrupted. Crossed to his side of the table, each step and word falling sharp into the quiet room. “This is _not_ the world you knew—hell, it’s not even the world you woke up to. Too much has happened. Nowadays people don’t care if their knights are in armor—they just want them wearing body cameras.”

By the time Natasha reached Steve, he’d turned away to reveal only his shuttered profile. But she knew from the lines of his body that he was listening. “Steve, we had a good run—with SHIELD, then on our own. But that’s done. Reality’s come knocking and we have to adapt. And that’s going to be— _must be_ a conversation, not a speech.”

After a moment to swallow and brace herself, Natasha reached out to wrap one hand around Steve’s arm. The warmth leaching through his shirt belied his utter stillness—he could have been a statue except for his silent breaths. “You’re going to have to find a way to let someone else get a hand on the wheel—have a say in where we’re going and how we get there. Because all your moral certitude will mean nothing if we can’t do our jobs.”

She tightened her hold a moment, then let go. Felt the space between them. “That’s the new shape of the world, and we have to deal with it.”

Steve chuckled, but the sound held no mirth. “Brave new world. This is my sixth? Seventh? It doesn’t get any easier.”

A nod was Natasha’s answer. She’d lost count of the times she’d crashed everything and rebuilt. But for her, each change brought her farther away from the Red Room, into the light of freedom, friends, family.

Every shift in Steve’s world seemed to draw him into a murkier shade of gray.

Steve turned to her, and she flinched at the fierceness of his stare. “All of the institutions I’ve put my faith in have been tainted—have failed and fallen.”

But the fire in his gaze flickered, then died. He swallowed. “How do you still trust?”

“I don’t.” Natasha shrugged. Offered a weak smile that admitted that no matter how much her world might change, in some ways _she_ never would. “That’s why I’m hoping you’ll stick around and help us hash out something we can all live with.”

The beautiful room now held its own taint, a sense of aftermath that left the taste of ash on her tongue. A need to escape shivered along her skin. “I have to do my equipment checks.”

She turned her back on Steve and moved to the beckoning archway.

“What if I can’t?” The thick, strangled sound of Steve’s voice stopped her as much as his question.

Natasha pivoted to face him. Recognized from London the thin line of red rimming Steve’s lids.

Felt an unwelcome sting in her own eyes—even as she fought a smile. Because of course Steven Goddamnit Rogers would ask. Would push. Would have to know the worst.

She steeled herself to tell him. “Then you really will be done. Because _that_ will be the right thing to do.”

********

“Thanks.” Bucky reached up—stretch, strain, pain, ignored. Sharon. Slim-necked brown bottle. Condensation bright beads. Bucky leaned back, garden bench. Sip, swallow, grimace. No beer tasted _right_.

But, free beer.

Sharon, brown eyes crinkled. Gold hair tucked under, in hiding. Brunette wig, short, bangs. Denim jacket shifting, body leaning as she set down a second bottle. Table, faded wood. 

Sharon, quick lift and slug from a water bottle. Dropped into a chair. Green, wooden, matched. “Aunt Peggy used to make the same face.”

A grunt was Bucky’s only response. Sipped. Let the quiet settle around them.

Courtyard, private. Mature trees, shading brick paving blocks white-pebbled paths. Hiding occupants from satellite and drone surveillance. Safe. Walls all around the space itself, enclosed by the house. A square with a hollow center. Street view nondescript. Modest, two stories, white stucco, red tile roofs.

Classy. Too good. Needed more than sneakers, sweatpants, long-sleeved T-shirt. 

Bucky flicked eyes back. Sharon, jeans and denim jacket. Bootheels on a crosspiece of the table. He cleared his throat. “So this was Carter’s place?” 

“This was one of Aunt Peggy’s secrets.” Sharon, head turning. “I think everyone had them in the early days of SHIELD—Howard Stark, Colonel Phillips—boltholes where you could lie low and go off the grid.” 

Sharon, free hand waving. Chasing away the past. “I don’t think Aunt Peggy ever actually used this place, but a few years ago she created a few off-book aliases for me, and gave one of them the deed.”

Bucky sipped. Swig of beer washing through his mouth. Lowered the bottle, glass against bench. He tilted his head. Studied Sharon. Carter. _That_ name a ricochet through memories. 

Peggy Carter, bombshell. No-nonsense, sleek curves, straight shoulders. Dark hair perfect. Always perfect—combed, pinned, pomaded. Sharp features. Brown eyes cocoa-warm and bullet-cold. Steel glare and cut-glass accent. Even kindness hard-edged—no soft touch in the boys’ clubs, Howling Commandos and SSR. 

Back in the day...questions. Did she relax when she was alone with Steve? Or did Steve like getting nicked on her edges? 

Bucky blinked. New, American Agent Carter. Stranger, no danger. But...not the same dame. Peggy’s opposite: Soft outside, steel core. Gentle face, round cheeks and chin. Toned and ready to go. Lean, like women were now. And blonde, usually. Wig no boost to resemblance. “Y’know, you don’t look anything like her.”

Sharon, huffing. Shoulders lifted like a nod. “I’m actually her grand-niece. But she refused to be called a great aunt.” Full British voice, not familiar. “One cannot assume at this point in our acquaintance that I am a ‘great’ anything, much less a great aunt.” 

But Bucky chuckled. Went to scratch chin. Froze. The hand—the left hand—gone.

Sharon’s bottle, fingers tensed, plastic crackle, relaxed. She sighed and gestured. “After we get settled, maybe there’s something we can do about—” 

_No._ “I’d rather focus on gettin’ those words out of my head.” 

True mission. Personal mission: Free or finished. Never Hydra's tool again. 

********

Sharon shivered at the sudden, fierce light in Bucky’s pale eyes.

From what she’d read, heard, and seen, Bucky seemed like a kaleidoscope: You never knew what kind of pattern the parts of his personality would fall into at any moment. Quiet and introspective, harsh and bitter, charming and funny. As if he were still gathering the pieces of himself that had been scattered across the years.

Or shattered by Hydra.

The Winter Soldier had not really been a person—more like a dark spirit of vengeance from some ancient myth. Sharon could still feel the slam of her body into the table, the grip of metal fingers on her throat.

Could still see the soulless, empty gaze…

Bucky sighed and shifted on the bench. “Sorry.”

Sharon offered her own small smile of apology. Of course that was a sore spot for him—one of many, no doubt. 

Steve’s voice interrupted the awkward moment. “You ready to go, Sharon? Nat’s gearing up.”

She tilted her head to see Steve coming toward them, his steps crunching in the gravel. Tension stretched along his shoulders, but Sharon couldn’t guess at the cause.

“Yep.” Sharon tilted the bottle to suck down the last few swallows of water. Then she set the empty on the table as she swung her boots to the ground and levered up to her feet.

With a few more steps Steve arrived at her side. His brows furrowed slightly as solemn blue eyes regarded her. “You sure you don’t want backup?”

A snort escaped before Sharon could think to stop it. She followed up with a shrug. “My job is to smile, get bought beers, and avoid gropers. Nat has the trickier part.”

With the Raft coordinates, they’d figured out where the personnel were stationed and how the guards and other workers traveled to and from the prison. Tomorrow they’d have some surveillance equipment on the Raft—if tonight went according to plan.

Sharon was the lookout—she’d while away a few hours playing visiting barfly at the local watering hole to keep an eye on their targets. Nat would infiltrate the barracks to plant bugs, button cams, and signal boosters on uniforms and equipment. Getting eyes and ears on the Raft would help them get an extraction plan in place.

She focused back on the conversation in time to hear Bucky’s question. “Was the lawyer able to do anything?”

Steve huffed and shook his head. “Bernie wants to hold off until there’s official acknowledgment of the arrests. But Ross seems to be playing coy.”

He glanced at Sharon. “Nat may want you to check in with the office to confirm your status.”

Surprise lifted Sharon’s brows. Natasha and she had tried to hide Sharon’s involvement in the fugitives’ escape—not to mention the equipment appropriation—but neither one of them figured it would actually work. Sharon had filed for time off when Aunt Peggy passed—time interrupted by the bombing—and had used that excuse to depart after the Winter Soldier’s breakout. “OK. I guess I should take a look to see how full my inbox has gotten.”

“Be careful tonight, and call us if you need us.” Steve’s eyes brightened with a smile before he took one hand in a gentle grip. “Although I doubt there’s anything Nat and you can’t handle.”

Sharon could feel his calluses against her own. She wrapped her fingers around his.

By now she was used to the lack of zing between them. Looked like their first kiss would be their last. At the time it had felt good—very good—but it hadn’t felt right. Neither Steve nor she had tried to repeat the experiment. Sharon could appreciate the symmetry: one Steve Rogers kiss per Agent Carter.

With a nod to Bucky’s beer-bottle salute, Sharon turned and made her way to the house and the first step to freeing the Raft’s prisoners.

********

Steve watched until Sharon entered the house, breathing slowly to try and shrug off the dark mood brought on by his conversation with Nat. After a few moments he sighed and walked over to fling himself onto the bench next to Bucky. He picked up the lonely beer, tilted head asking about its ownership.

He barely waited for Bucky’s nod and shrug before taking a long pull. Slumped forward to rest his elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingers. 

“What’s up?” Bucky started nudging Steve in the ribs with his own bottle in a time-honored pester-Steve-until-he-spills tactic.

Steve smiled at the flash into the past. But then he leaned back and gusted out a sigh. “Just…feeling my age, I guess.”

Bucky swung one knee onto the bench to face Steve more fully. “Thirty-one or ninety-eight?”

“Both.” He’d never actually expected to live this long. Not when he was a scrawny punk always waiting for the next breath or the next heartbeat to be his last. Or when he was fighting battle after battle against such powerful foes. Steve scraped his nails along the edge of the label as he frowned. “Does the world make sense to you, now? The way things are done?”

Bucky frowned. “The world is what it is. I tried to avoid most of it.”

Guilt shivered down Steve’s spine, the icy wind mocking him as Bucky fell away, away… “I’m so sorry, Buck. You were living a quiet life before you got dragged into all of this.”

Bucky’s brows lifted as he shook his head, a slow I-can’t-believe-we-have-to-discuss this movement. “Not your fault.”

“In a way, it is.” Steve could hear himself getting louder, felt himself locking into that chin-up shoulder-straight pose when his blood was up. “Zemo wanted to destroy the Avengers, and he picked you as the weapon.”

He winced at his own phrasing, but let the statement stand—along with the silence that followed. Bucky’s brow furrowed as his eyes unfocused, but Steve had no clue where Bucky’s thoughts ranged. Steve couldn't help comparing the memories in his head, a thousand sketches of Bucky through the years, from punk kid to charming man to hardened soldier. None of them were this Bucky. Steve would need to start again, a new sketch on a blank page, only echoes of the earlier portraits. Lines erased to be redrawn more truly. 

Bucky did another slow head shake before he lifted his gaze to Steve’s. “Somebody...somebody was always gonna come for me, Steve. Escape plans needed, mapped, ready.”

He paused, swallowed, expression tightening. “If it’d been Hydra, I’d...I’d be down some dark hole. Or back in the freezer. If it’d been—if you hadn’t been there—I’d be dead.”

Bucky shifted, looked away. “There's so much...I wish hadn’t happened. Hurt that can’t be undone. But you...you came for me.” 

Steve pursed his lips to speak, stopped, started again, stopped. Was this really the time or the place? Did him wanting to know make it OK to force Bucky into a discussion he clearly didn’t want to have? Steve shook his head but spoke anyway. “I’d’ve come for you, Buck. Wherever, whenever.” 

He locked eyes, needing to see the truth. “It’s been years since the Potomac—why didn’t you ever contact me?” 

Steve’s gut clenched as Bucky set his beer aside to swipe his thumb and forefinger over his closed eyes. Time passed, counted in the sound of their breaths. 

Finally Bucky nodded to himself. When he dropped his hand, Steve couldn’t untangle the emotions in his friend’s tired eyes. 

“I...wasn’t myself.” Bucky barked a short laugh. “Remembered you. Steve. Enough to break the programming. Enough to pull you from the river. But not...I didn't remember me.” 

He shrugged. “I went to the museum. Read who I was. All of us. But it's...not real. And I...needed to remember. I had to know how to be your friend. Before I—before I needed you to be my friend."

Bucky's brows drew together as he frowned. "But it didn’t work out. I remembered...I remembered _him_ —the Soldier. And all the blood on my hands.” 

Steve opened his mouth, shut it against the helplessness that was becoming all too familiar. Instead, he reached out and clasped Bucky’s shoulder. Hoped it was enough. 

Bucky leaned into the touch. “Funny thing, being here. Being with you. Feels...more me. Memories come faster, clearer. The Commandos, the old neighborhood. Good things.” 

His lips lifted with a hint of Bucky's old devil-may-care grin. “Even remembering—remembering the smack of Sister Constantine’s ruler across my knuckles after you’d dragged me into trouble again.” 

Steve snorted and pulled back to thwack Bucky’s arm. Failed to hide his own grin. “Forget it, Buck. No way I’m lettin’ your Swiss-cheese memory rewrite the past. Only thing you could pin on me was fighting, and it was always Sister _Prudence_ doling out the punishment for that—when she wasn’t pattin’ you on the back for throwin’ such a good right hook.” 

Bucky snorted. “So it was.” After a moment, his eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t tell me what this conversation is really about.” 

The brief surge of mirth faded as confusion washed through Steve once more. His fingers clenched around the bottle—but not hard enough to break, never that. He’d spent too much time learning the strengths and limits of his body. To be sure that fragile things would be safe in his hands. “It seems like the Accords delivered an ultimatum: Obey or be gone.” 

He shook his head, wondering if Bucky could read the bewilderment on his face, hear it in his voice. “I don’t understand it: How can anyone claim the right to tell one person not to save another? It’s like you see a child drowning, but you’re supposed to stay on the boardwalk because you’re banned from the private beach between you and the ocean. You’re expected to watch the child drown and do nothing. Who can demand that? Who would want to? And how am I—how is anyone—supposed to live with knowing that the only thing that stopped them was the word ‘No’?” 

Steve put his beer on the table. Clenched his fists, felt his jaw tighten, eyes stinging. “What if we fail and there’s no way to fix this? I can’t—” 

“I know.” Bucky scooted over. His hand hovered in the air a long moment. Then came down to rest like benediction on Steve’s back, as Bucky rubbed circles like he did when he was trying to help Steve breathe, a lifetime ago. “You never could stay out of it...even when all you were gonna get for your trouble was a bloody nose and a tear in your good shirt.” 

Steve snorted and hunched, letting his head hang as he stared at the bricks between his feet. 

“I’ve heard folks say that...that the world is smaller now.” Bucky’s words came slowly, like he was feeling his way along an unsure path. “With the tech, and the speed. How you can peep into the windows. See every corner of every country on Earth. But the people... Sometimes it seems...it seems like we’re farther apart than we ever were, back when it took weeks to get anywhere. And even with all of the—all of the _everything_. Food, clothes, stuff...people still claw to get what’s theirs. And...and they still don’t wanna let it go.” 

Bucky leaned back, picked up his beer. “Steve...all you can do, all you can do is give it your best shot.” 

He looked up, past Steve and into the night. Whatever he saw made him slump as he sighed. “But if not, maybe...maybe the only way you can live with it is to move away from the shore. Find somewhere to live your own quiet life.” 

Steve shook his head, but more in desperate wish than denial. It was a truth that he didn’t want to look at, but like Nat’s new world, he would have to. And hope they could find a way to change it. 

He nodded his thanks to Buck, grabbed his own beer and sat back. Let the sounds of the world settling to sleep soothe him as he watched evening fall. 

********

What do I do? What do I do? What if Ross calls? What if another portal opens up? Where is Bruce? Where is Thor? How is Rhodey dealing with everything? How is _Vision_ dealing with it? What do I say? What is Hill up to? Where is she? Where's the not-so-merry Widow? Where are the others? How are the others? How is Pepper? What does she think about—

“Incoming vid call, boss. Helen Cho.”

Friday’s voice jerked Tony out of his reverie. He blinked and scratched his chin, a quick glance at his charcoal suit and around the office confirming that everything was company-ready. The desk was, in fact, almost painfully neat. He’d been perhaps a little too intent on getting things in all of his rooms just so. “Put her through.” 

The screen across from the desk filled with a backdrop of Cho’s South Korea office, with the Delicious Doctor herself center stage seated at her desk. Looked the same, doing the scrubs-and-bun combo. She nodded a greeting. “Hello, Tony. How are you?”

“Could be better.” A lot of things could be. But whether he—or anything else—would be improving anytime soon was still the 64 billion dollar question.

Cho’s expression tightened as she glanced at the files on her desk. Then her dark eyes lifted to his. “I am sorry about Colonel Rhodes. From the reports, the damage appears…extensive.”

“But is it reparable?” Tony kept the question calm, professional. No upchuck of hope-please-how. He’d seen the way Cho could manipulate her cellular matrix to create sheets of new skin and even grow an artificial person out of vibranium. But a human spinal cord was probably a little more complex.

“Maybe. _Eventually_.” Cho’s arms and slim fingers spread to encompass the scope of the problem. “The cells of the spinal cord are active and conductive in a way the cells of many other tissues are not. We’ll need to address those differences, along with the formatting of cord strands versus the skin sheets or other cells.”

Cho nodded, to herself or Tony. “Plus we’ll also have to design an implementation process, to introduce and integrate the new cells so they bypass the damage—without causing more injury ourselves.”

“So what do you need?” Tony rocked back in his chair. Spread his hands like he was showing the office as an offer. “Personnel? Materials? And what kind of timeline are we looking at?” 

It would happen as fast as Stark resources could make it happen. This was Rhodey. Tony shuddered as his ears went into a loop of Rhodey crashing, smashing to earth...breaking.

“Tony, I understand that this looks like a solution and you want Colonel Rhodes to regain function as soon as possible. But I will not risk my patients’ health and welfare.” Cho shook her head.

Tony’s stuttered shut on his automatic protest at Cho’s raised palm. At her stiff shoulders and implacable expression.

“Even if I could get the protocols approved tomorrow, it will still be months or years before we’re ready for human trials.” Her somber gaze pinned him like a bug on an entomologist's board. “No matter who is on the waiting list.”

Tony drummed his fingers on the desk. Concentrated all of the anxious, mad, sad into those precise movements. He’d known that would be Cho’s response— _known it_ —but still couldn’t stop the disappointment slumping his spine. “OK. What about—what about the specs I sent?”

Cho shifted to the new topic with the same efficiency that she used to pull forward another set of notes. “Your technological wizardry is as impressive as always.”

She nodded as she looked up, approval giving her a go-Tony-go sort of glow. “It’s obvious that you used the current hardware and software as a starting point, but your streamlining of the interface will make the apparatus easier to tolerate long-term. And it should do well to keep the musculature and connective tissues from atrophying.”

“So if I whip up a prototype in the next few days we can go for it?” The faster Rhodey was up and about, the sooner things could start approaching some sort of post-apocalyptic normal.

“If his attending physicians have no objections, then neither do I.” Cho offered a small smile, a 50/50 dose of empathy and encouragement. “Good luck and let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Tony smirked, but shook his head. “Probably nothing, unless you manage to invent a time machine in your off hours.”

He clicked off and rubbed his temples. For a moment, he let himself be a daydream believer. A chance to make up for—to make things _right_. But...a darker thought slithered along his stretched nerves. Even if Cho—if anyone—managed to pull off that little history-shifting miracle, just how far back would Tony go? Before Vision made his shot? Before the airport, before the Accords? Before Ultron? Before Extremis? Before the ambush in the desert? Before his parents left for their fatal detour?

Before he was even born?

With a slap of the desk, Tony shoved his grim thoughts aside and pushed to his feet.

He had some leg braces to make.

********

The folds of Maria’s gray silk dress whispered around her as she followed the restaurant hostess. The woman’s auburn braids bobbed slightly with each step as they made their way past white-draped tables set with squat crystal vases overflowing with ferns and pink roses.

Pepper looked up from her seat as they stepped into a secluded alcove, only the slight widening of her eyes betraying her reaction to Maria’s appearance. “So glad you could make it.” 

Maria sat and smoothed her skirt, tucking her legs to one side as she leaned in for an air kiss. She almost giggled at the way her hat brim flopped over Pepper’s hair. “Thank you so very much for making the time to see me.”

Pepper kept her murmur between them. “I had to see it to believe it.” She scanned the tea accoutrements and the three-tiered selection of savories and sweets, then dismissed the hostess with a nod and polite smile. 

The hostess’s assurances that they could take all the time they needed and Pepper’s ecru power suit suggested that Pepper favored this venue for her more leisurely business discussions.

Maria set her Chanel clutch to one side, then interlaced gloved fingers. The accessories—gloves, purse, pearls, makeup shaded in discreet beiges and browns—both complemented the couture dress and hat and reinforced the impression of someone much older and discreetly wealthy. “I’ve already activated the signal scrambler. We don’t have to worry about electronic surveillance.”

And their lips couldn’t be read thanks to Pepper’s choice of location, a discreet nook cordoned off by silk screens decorated with images of birds and dogwood blossoms.

Perhaps the precautions were more paranoia than actual peril, but it never hurt to be careful. And Maria had been in the spy game too long to be anything else.

Pepper nodded, then lifted a sterling silver teapot to pour a fragrant blend into a china cup and saucer so delicate they were almost transparent. She passed it over and topped off her own serving. “How did you make out with Bernie?”

A sip of mint tea made Maria smile at the balance of sharp and sweet before she set the cup down with a careful clink. “You were right. She’s exactly what we needed—or will need, if any of this ever reaches a courtroom.”

She’d taken a risk, reaching out to Pepper when it became clear that the Accords were much more than a simple bid for oversight. But Pepper had come through with a name: Bernie Rosenthal. A former schoolmate and a lawyer not associated with SHIELD, Stark Industries, or the Avengers. But someone who understood the ramifications of the Accords—actual and potential—and was more than ready to argue against them. 

“Bernie does love a good tussle, legal or otherwise.” A small grin lifted Pepper’s lips. “Watch out for her left jab.”

“At least that’s one item crossed off the list.” Maria sighed as she reached out to set a chocolate-dipped madeleine on her plate.

“What’s your next step—” Pepper interrupted herself with a sharp gesture. “At least, what can you tell me about what comes next?”

A noncommittal hum was Maria’s first response as she nibbled at her pastry. It was, of course, delicious. Then she nodded. “Short-term, we’re doing some recruiting for the project—trying to acquire some folks who are locked into what look to be some long-term contracts.”

She shrugged. “After that…objectives and alternatives. Looking at what—if anything—can be salvaged. We’re not speculating much until we get a better idea of how current measures will be implemented in the foreign and domestic spheres.”

Maria took a fortifying sip. “How we move forward partly depends on the next name you have for me—assuming you have one.”

“Yes, I do.” Pepper’s long fingers ghosted along her cup rim as her brows drew together. “Someone who has some very definite ideas about what is needed—and what is to be avoided. With a broad scope of experience in organization, establishing infrastructure, processes and procedures, and securing funding.”

Maria nodded when Pepper paused. This person certainly sounded like a good fit— _if_ he or she was willing to take on such a daunting task under such challenging conditions.

Pepper’s deep breath left one more moment of suspense. Then Pepper locked eyes with Maria as if daring Maria to disbelieve. “Pepper Potts.”

Pepper needn’t have worried. Maria trusted Pepper’s experience and instincts—admired the woman’s clear-headed and calm balance to Tony’s wilder ideas and more dramatic personality. If anyone could help navigate the turbulent international waters stirred up by the Accords, it was Pepper.

But…was this the right move for Pepper? Maria took a long moment to study her tablemate. There were subtle signs of strain, but you had to pay attention and be familiar with how Pepper looked when things were going well. “Pepper, I’m certainly not going to say no. But taking this step is going to have some serious personal, professional, and even political ramifications. It could be dangerous, and there is no guarantee of success.”

She leaned forward, close enough to see the freckles under Pepper’s flawless makeup. “Are you sure that you want to do this?”

“Yes. I’ve been considering it since I read the Accords.” Pepper shifted in her seat, straightened her spine. “This needs to be done and I think I can help.”

If this weren’t an undercover operation, Maria would be leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Instead she tapped her point onto the linen. “One problem: You have a major conflict of interest.”

A rueful smile softened Pepper’s expression. “I prefer ‘incentive’.”

But she acknowledged the issue with a dip of the chin. “Give me a few days and I’ll have everything squared away.”

“All right.” Maria reached into her clutch, pulled forth an envelope. Knew the shape of the key it held, wrapped within a typewritten page of instructions. “Take two days to reconsider. If you’re still certain, then this will give you information and access.”

As Pepper secreted the envelope, Maria raised her cup in salute. “Welcome to the team.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if anyone thinks Friday is OOC, there's a method to her madness.

Clint lounged on the bench/bunk, shoulders and head leaning against the wall of the cell. Wished he was in his own bed, or at the kitchen table. One hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, the other a willing prisoner, fingers tangled with Laura’s. His family, his friends, his team, the world safe. Instead he was stuck in Ross’s “super max pokey.” 

The last few days had fallen into a routine possibly designed to drive him insane: Get up when the daytime lights click on. Take a piss or a shit as needed. Exercise as much as the cramped space of the cell would allow. Eat and drink when it was offered. 

Maybe start a round of the Morse code game with Sam and Lang. Whoever started it, always started with the same sentence banged out on the metal of the bunk, wall, or stool: _Thaddeus Ross is a prick_.

The first time Clint did it, it took Lang a few moments to parse the message. But then the guy had tapped out _Thaddeus Ross is a giant prick_.

Sam was much quicker on the uptake. He was starting _Thaddeus Ross is a giant pusillanimous prick_ practically before Scott had finished. The additions of colorful descriptions of their jailer would continue until someone dropped a word or repeated one already in the chain.

It wasn't much of a game, but it passed the time. So much time. Not seeing anyone but the guards who dropped off and picked up the trays of slop, not hearing anything in response to their requests for information about Wanda.

No phone calls, no lawyers. No showers. The air was starting to get ripe.

The hum and clink of a door opening warned that company was coming. Clint stayed where he was, waited for whoever clomped across the deck to come into view.

Thaddeus Ross offered only his profile to Clint as Ross’s gaze swept along the cells. The slight curl of lip below the man’s mustache hinted at disdain, quickly hidden behind a suspiciously friendly smile. "So, Barton, any thoughts?"

"Shouldn't have come quietly." But he’d trusted his friends—and his country—not to screw him over. Years ago he wouldn't have. He'd've busted heads and ghosted away long before he let anyone lay a hand on him. But that was before Phil, and Fury. Before Laura and Natasha. Before Bruce and Tony, Vision and Thor. Before Steve and Wanda…and Pietro.

"You shouldn't have been there at all…as a family man." Ross pivoted to capture Clint in his view. "Wife and kids… Those are real responsibilities. Real liabilities."

Ice slid a long, cold trail down Clint's spine. Anger blazed a return path, sending letters of fire into his brain with one name: _Stark_.

Whether in the moment Tony had been malicious or just careless, the damage was done. Ross _knew_.

Clint didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breathe. Just watched Ross with eyes that had grown up in the carnival. Sizing up all comers at the fairway games until Clint knew who could make the shot and who was just tossing the dart or the hoop to see where it landed. "You got something to say, just say it."

Ross let his eyes roam over Clint—measuring Clint in return. "I'm here to offer you a deal, Barton—you, Lang, Wilson. You give me Rogers' whereabouts, or Barnes', or Banner's, and you go home free. Back to the little woman and the rugrats."

Clint’s shoulders tightened at the rather obvious absence of Wanda from the deal. But another glance at the way Ross was slightly leaned up on the balls of his feet had Clint relaxing back again. The guy practically quivered—a hound dog eager to leap on a duck falling from a perfectly aimed arrow. This prick was taking potshots in the dark. "That's real generous of you, sir. But what makes you think I have the first clue where the hell they are?"

He waved his hands to indicate the cell. "I ain't exactly been keepin' up with my Twitter feed."

"I suggest you figure it out quickly." Ross's body stiffened as his smile dropped.

Within a blink, Ross had recovered his studied nonchalance. He ran a casual hand over his perfectly coiffed hair and smoothed the front of his black leather jacket. "It's really in your best interest. And not just yours. I wouldn't want something to happen to your family while you were…out of reach."

Clint welcomed the cold this time. Let it coat his face, ice him with a mask of indifference. He said nothing. 

"Did I just hear a threat? Did you just threaten that man's family?" Sam's indignation seemed to fill the space as his voice got louder. "Did I just hear the Secretary of State threaten children? Hell, did anybody ever check to make sure this guy isn't Hydra?"

Clint couldn't see Sam, but he could imagine the clench of Sam's fists pressed against the door of his own cell. Kept his eyes on Ross—not even a hint of a flinch. Whatever Ross’s game was, he didn't seem to be playing for that particular team.

Lang snorted loud enough to echo. “Nah. I get the impression that this guy is way more ‘Me Me Me’ than ‘Anything for the cause,’ right?”

The interruption gave Clint that extra moment to breathe, to think. To aim and fire a response at Ross. "Yeah, whatever. Get back to me when you know the name of my dog."

Not the surest shot, but the only one he had right now. A hope of misdirection.

At least, until Clint could get out of here and confirm that the family contingency plans had worked. And get his hands around someone's throat.

********

In these moments, Vision could understand the phrase single-minded. As he watched the sequence of events unfold in the air before him, he found himself unable to shift his focus. He sensed...an expectation. A dread.

And yet, he returned to this macabre contemplation every day. There was little else to occupy him. Tony and Colonel Rhodes kept to themselves singly and together.

Movement drew his focus. As the events in Leipzig continued in the holographic simulation, again he looked away from Wanda. Again he lifted a hand to his temple. Again he shifted his eyes to the sky. Again he sighted Falcon. Again he fired the shot.

Again Falcon dodged. Again Vision missed. Again Colonel Rhodes tumbled to the earth.

Again he failed.

Vision flinched at a sudden shock of words, heard but not comprehended. The movement was indiscernible to the naked eye—the naked human eye—but then, Friday was not human. "Repeat."

Friday's enunciation sharpened a slight but measurable degree. "I said, 'If you don't mind me saying, you've got the wrong end of it'."

Even after all this time, Friday's voice still had the power to startle him. Or more precisely, remind him that in some strange way they were kin as well as kind. Both artificial intelligences. Both born in the mind of Tony Stark. Both more than their original programming.

In the echoing spaces of the empty facility, he clung to that slim thread of connection. Perhaps the only one left.

Vision took a deliberate step back from the display. Friday was definitely not a clone of the original Jarvis program—the colloquialisms sometimes required translation. "Can you be more precise?"

Whether the perception was imaginary or accurate, Vision suspected that Friday's vocalization speed increased. As if she were eager to finally have someone with whom to discuss this strange course of events. "No replaying of this unmitigated disaster will make the ending any better. Or your aim. Falcon dodged. You start to assume he's going to zig and he's just as likely to zag." 

Friday paused. If Vision needed to breathe, he would be holding his breath. 

But finally Friday ended his moment of suspension. "Your marksmanship is not the primary issue here."

Vision engaged in a subtle tightening of his jaw. Could Friday’s sensors detect it? "If you have observed a more profitable area of consideration, then by all means, enlighten me."

"Sure, now that you ask. If you’re gonna watch, if all you’re doin’ is relivin’ the moment over and over, learn something from it. Was taking the shot the right call to make if the Colonel was in the line of fire? Why did the reactor cover fail from a glancing blow—was the beam too strong? Did you bother to shift it, or was that the same shot you used to take out an entire control tower? And if so, what would that have really done to Falcon?" Friday paused, and her voice seemed to acquire a firmer edge. "Get those answers. And then go for the really tough ones."

Vision waited a long time—seconds, not the microseconds of his processing—before he took the next step in the conversation that logic dictated. “And what are those?”

“What was it exactly that made the difference between this battle and all the simulations and fights before it? Was it you, them, the situation? Could it have gone another way? Does knowing what you know now about the mission they were on, and the mission you were on, change anything? How do you go forward? How do you all go forward?” Friday’s voice seemed to acquire the nature of a whisper. “Can you?”

********

T’Challa shifted the tablet in his hand as he considered the list displayed. An inventory of the food, drink, clothes, linen, and other necessities being gathered for the ceremonies surrounding T’Chaka’s funeral and T’Challa’s own coronation. 

He had increased the quantities delivered to his personal sanctuary—subtly, he hoped. A few categories of items, a few times a day. No single vendor or delivery person would likely see enough of the data to notice a pattern.

He sighed. It was far preferable to dwell on the measures to cover the arrival of those opposing the Accords than the actual reason for the impending events.

T’Challa lifted his head to stare at the mist-shrouded mountains that T’Chaka had seen from this very spot for all the decades of his reign. The desk had changed, become sleeker, more functional as styles evolved and technology advanced. A part of him missed the more traditional furniture of his youth, with its many drawers and compartments perfect for small fingers eager for exploration.

The Dora Milaje on current duty straightened as a single knock sounded on the ebony door.

At his nod, the door was opened to reveal a woman of uncertain years. T’Challa appreciated that she had not seen fit to meet him dressed in the white coat common to doctors around the globe. 

Heavy-lidded eyes appraised the room and all within before she bowed. “Your majesty.”

The woman’s cloud-white hair belied the still-shallow wrinkles upon her face. The rounded cheekbones, nose, and chin added a feline air. The generous proportions of her figure were enhanced by the pattern on her turquoise tunic and trousers and the precise way she carried herself.

T’Challa stood and acknowledged the bow with a nod. He then waved his bodyguards out of the room and tucked the tablet into a pocket beneath his own high-collared garment. 

He gestured his guest to a furniture grouping near the windows. A lacquered tea set already waited, steam rising from the pot. “Doctor Saalinge. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” The woman’s grace was confirmed in her slow descent onto a chair whose ebon wood was eased with cushions of a rich brown. 

She shook her head at T’Challa’s silent offer of refreshment as he partly filled his own cup. “I must say, your majesty, I appreciated your reassurance that it is not you who requires my expertise.”

T’Challa suppressed a grimace. No doubt there were those both within and outside his country who would leap upon any sign of weakness in the new ruler of Wakanda. “That is gratifying to hear. Have you reviewed the materials provided?”

Saalinge settled more deeply into her seat, looking at him with the air of someone evaluating a decision to confirm its validity.

He found himself unconsciously sitting straighter under her regard.

With a nod, the doctor angled more closely to him. “I know for whom you seek treatment.”

T’Challa blessed the thoroughness of the information Hill had provided him. “Yes?”

“I have been asked before to consult on the case of James Buchanan Barnes. The one called the Winter Soldier—and until recently the suspected Vienna Bomber.” Saalinge considered him a moment. “This does not surprise you?”

T’Challa lifted one shoulder. “You are a neurologist of some renown, doctor. There was some likelihood that you would be familiar with the case.”

The doctor accepted the appeal to her reputation with a bow. “And do you wish for me to recount the assessment I previously provided?”

“I would like to hear more about how you came to be consulted.” T’Challa knew Saalinge’s clinical expertise and credentials. What he must now determine was if she could be trusted with this uniquely vulnerable patient.

“It is a simple enough matter. A colleague in the United States asked me to speculate on the short- and long-term effects of extensive and repeated neurological trauma.” She paused. “Extensive, repeated, _deliberate_ trauma. And given those speculations, advise on a course of support and treatment.”

Her chin lifted. “To say more would betray confidences I am not willing to reveal.”

T’Challa leaned forward, studying the woman across from him. “And knowing not only of this trauma, but also the true nature of the patient himself and his history, would you treat him?”

He lifted a hand to pause any response as he continued. “Knowing that your oath of confidentiality must not only apply to the patient, but also extend to all of those in his company?”

Doctor Saalinge seemed to give the question due weight. A silence settled between them as she deliberated. But eventually she lifted her eyes to his and gave a single nod.

T’Challa returned it as he stood. “Thank you, doctor. I am sure that all involved will appreciate your conscientiousness and adaptability. As well as your discretion.”

A small smile lifted Saalinge’s lips as she too rose and they made their way to the door. “If my king is kind enough to seek care for this unfortunate man, how can I do anything but provide it?”

T’Challa nodded to himself with the satisfaction of one matter settled as Saalinge departed.

The doctor’s exit paused as Shuri entered, dodging around her elder with a speed and precision that revealed her warrior’s ambitions.

T’Challa smiled as he stepped back to let his sister advance. A shake of the head kept the Dora Milaje stationed outside as Saalinge disappeared from view.

After he closed the door and turned, he stopped to consider his sister as she stared at the landscape. As always, he catalogued the similarities of their faces that made them family and declared them the children of T’Chaka.

These last weeks had taken their toll upon her. For the explosion in Lagos had claimed the life of a childhood friend, as close as a sister. Followed all too quickly by the loss of their father. Such heavy grief to bear upon such young shoulders.

The first, shocked rawness of her features at his initial return had shifted to a more controlled, somber expression. 

He wished to enfold her, but feared that she would as likely push him away as accept the embrace. “Sister. What do you need from me?”

Shuri’s eyes snapped to his as her head turned. “What could I require of you, Brother, save your company?”

T’Challa’s back stiffened, nerves singing with warning. He would have to take great care in this and future conversations, if Shuri’s interest was already roused.

For his sister was the opposite of a fool—even more cunning than he, perhaps. Far more eager to dive into the pools of politics where T’Challa only reluctantly waded. “Then I welcome our time together, however brief it must be due to other responsibilities. Come, join me in a cup of tea.”

“Of course.” Shuri glided over and selected a spot on the couch, perching along its edge like a panther poised to leap.

She kept her gaze on the cups and tray as she lifted the pot. With steady hands she added a small addition to his cup and poured a new measure into her own.

“I feel you are keeping something from me, Brother.” Shuri set down the pot and leaned in, tension in every line of her. “If it is to do with me, with Wakanda, with our father, I have a right to know.”

T’Challa held back a sigh. He knew that Shuri was a woman grown. With an adult’s—a sibling’s right to question him. But this was not a secret he could share.

Especially when he could not know how she would react to the presence of one who was so recently accused of their father’s death—and others who did have some hand, however unintentional, in the loss of her friend.

T’Challa felt keenly his shortcoming, as brother and king. He had no means of easing her mind, for she spoke truth. “Please, Shuri. Can I not share a brief moment of quiet with my sister to fortify me for the day ahead?”

Shuri conceded with a nod. But her eyes shouted questions that would not be set aside as easily.

So they sipped their tea, sharing a silence that had little to do with peace.

********

Bucky shifted on his stool. Steve, standing. Adjusting the cutting board to slice another tomato. Steve, back straight, arms easy, fingers sure as the knife rose and fell. The slices steady, precise. Counted in the soft thunks of metal on wood. 

He leaned. Cane-woven seatback pressed patterns into his spine. Confirmation: Alone. Safehouse kitchen 3.5 times the size of the Brooklyn room in his memory. Then: Bed/sitting room with sink and stove. Cold-water flat, shared bathroom in the hall. Here, now: Clean windows, sun, wooden cabinets, white appliances. Pale stucco walls, red tile counters, floors. 

Silence, but… Not the rush-rush-rush Romania-Germany-Siberia or the pain-tired-tired from Siberia to here. Quiet. Good quiet, breathing and the thunk of the knife hitting wood. 

Stealth mission: Initiate. Bucky inched his fingers toward the staging area. Target: Mozzarella stacks. Maneuver around fresh basil and the bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Top piece on the nearest column was non-standard, a bit of a blob. Creamy and delicious if secured before incorporation into caprese. 

Just a little bit closer… 

"Don't even think about it. That's for dinner." Steve success: Shutdown of incursion accomplished. Steve flipped the knife to slide the finished tomato slices off the cutting board onto a plate. Steve’s target: Tomato, in a bowl at his opposite elbow. Acquisition successful. 

Bucky blinked at the pout of his own lips. Words spilled. "Geez, you sound like Ma." 

Images, scents, sounds. Barnes family kitchen. Days, weeks, months, years….moments. More words. "I…I'm starting to dream about them… At least, I think it's them. Mama, Papa, the girls…" 

His hand reached, braced. Weight against the counter. Here, now. "I didn't look them up, before. They haven't seemed real until now." 

Pale ghosts. Photographs tucked in files or buried in boxes. His gut clenched in need, want, maybe. "Steve, I was wondering if you … If you would …" 

"Anything, Buck, you know that." Steve, bent and twisted to see Bucky. Blue eyes direct. "What do you need?" 

"I'm sure there's a photo or two somewhere. Like there were shots of us at the museum." Family portrait. Stiff new coat, scent of pine. "But I think I remember you sketching..." 

"They were willing to pose for me—or at least, willing to stay still long enough for me to work on my technique." Steve, straight back but soft face. Silence, then.... "Bucky, maybe you'd like me to try drawing them for you?" 

Bucky could only nod. Breathe only, throat tight. Feel of paper between his fingertips. Pencil drawing...a woman's face, held so carefully in his hands. Slight smile, but sorrow . Grief shadowed her eyes.Worry in the pucker between her brows. 

Steve's mother...Sarah. 

"I'm out of practice. I haven't—I haven't actually drawn much since I...got back. Never felt right." Steve, wide shoulders shrug. Blue eyes focused on hands. On knife and tomato. Then look up with a determined nod. 

Bucky breathed in. Released the breath held prisoner. Relief.

Steve, sudden smile. "I can even draw them in color—colors you'd actually recognize, Buck. I don’t know if you remember, but I saw them—went to visit them after Doctor Erskine's serum." 

He shrugged. "Couldn't just disappear without saying good-bye." 

Bucky sat up. Raised brows. "Weren’t you top secret then? Surprised you got permission.”

Steve, snorting. Returned to current assignment as Chief Tomato Slicer. "Colonel Phillips wouldn't have liked it, that's for sure. But Senator Brandt was calling the shots—I was waiting to start my new job as a glorified chorus girl. It took a couple of weeks to put together a show for the bond-raising campaign." 

Bucky felt his lips curve, smile. Still unfamiliar, the stretch. But necessary.

Steve, speaking. "It helped, seeing everyone. That they still knew me—knew who I was from before. Becca even helped me get some off-duty clothes." 

A bark of laughter startled. Memories...little sister...rushing words. "No wonder your T-shirts never fit. Becca? Probably had the time of her life dressing you up and showing you off." 

Steve, grinning. Wide, wide, then smaller, soft. "The girls, all of them, they lived good lives—full lives. They all made it into this century. But they were gone by the time I was pulled from the ice." 

Pause, then... "They all had kids, Bucky, grandkids. You could look them up." 

Bucky’s body wanted to lean in. Give support, or get it. "Sounds like you didn't." 

Steve, making sound. Laugh and scoff and something else. "How could I? I was the reason they never knew their uncle, why you never made it home." 

A rude sound, bursting from squeezed chest. Then.... "They—they wouldn’t be like that." He could see. Smiles, soft words. Warmth. 

"I'm sure they would have." Steve, sun on blond. Glints matched to Steve’s movements. Shrug, swallow. "They always welcomed me." 

Then Steve, smiling. "And always insisted I stay for a meal. Your Ma said she was grateful to see someone so appreciative of her cooking." 

Bucky tilted his head. He could hear….a lilting voice. He could smell...washing powder, lavender. Feel the press of dress and apron on his cheek. Slim arms around him.

He blinked. Smiled. "Yeah, she must've been thrilled to see you eat." 

Stretched the smile to a smirk.. "And she'd be relieved you finally learned how to cook." 

"Hey, no fair." Knife clunked. Steve, puffed chest, crossed arms. "We went from cabbage soup and boiled liver to Army chow and C rations. Excuse me for not getting all creative in the kitchen." 

Steve, strong hands dropped. Resting on counter. "But now … I mean, of course KP duty makes sense—we do most of the eating so we should do most of the cooking. But it's more than that." 

Steve, corners of mouth tugged. Wistful gaze. "These flavors, these textures… These things that I never tasted because we never knew about them back then… They remind me that I'm here. Where I am, when I am." 

Bucky leaned in to Yes. "It's fruit for me. Fresh fruit.”All kinds—pears, plums, apples, cherries… Even bananas."

Empatic nod. Especially... “Bananas...they don't taste like I remember. But they taste like they're supposed to. Here and now." 

Steve, nodding. Returning to cutting assignment. "Yeah, I never want to have a canned peach again. I practically choke on the syrup. When things were—when the serum was still new, everything I put in my mouth tasted like the can it came in." 

Bucky grunted. Agreement. Meals in memories. Missions with the Commandos. Boxes and tins. Especially after...Azzano. Taste of metal like blood. And then after…after…always after… Blood and rubber in his mouth, sweat in his eyes. Chill air on his skin and the clench around his wrist, his arm, his legs, his chest, his head. Ozone smell, and the flinch that came before the scream… 

Sharp stab of basil. Bucky’s head rocked. Locked him back into the here and now in this kitchen. In this moment, with these people. 

He opened his eyes. Nat, leaning. Hands, 6 centimeters in front of his nose. Fingers and thumbs. Torn leaves, edges dark with breaking. 

Bucky looked. Awaited judgment. Steve, gripping his shoulder, firm and warm. Relax. Nat, mouth hiding the slight twitch. 

"Root beer floats." Nat, arched eyebrow, auburn. Nat, setting down basil, dusting hands. "Russians hate root beer, so I never really tasted one, growing up. Not even on a mission." 

Nat smiling, a secret. "Clint's wife Laura was making them, the first time he brought me to meet her...the first time he brought me home." 

Bucky swallowed. Nodded. A gift, this glimpse.

Steve, squeezing and letting go. "Can't beat an egg cream, though." 

An easing.

Nat, nose scrunching. Steve, snorting. 

Bucky grinned and shrugged at Nat. "Don't worry, it doesn't actually have eggs—or cream." 

Nat, eyes rolling. Hip and elbow nudging Steve. Sending him on a different mission as she took over slicing. Oven door opening and closing. Aromas, fragrant, hunger...

Nat, chin jerking, delivering new assignment. Bucky obeyed, layered tomato, mozzarella, and basil onto the designated platter. 

"How did the mission go?" Steve, over-the-shoulder glance. The flicked of a burner deactivation. Lift of a frying pan from the stove. Steve, swift movements to dip slices of crusty bread into melted butter. Steve, laying them on a baking sheet. 

"All tech present and accounted for." Nat, waving her knife toward Steve. "You were right to nix the garlic." 

Relief. Bucky sighed. Confirmation of Sharon’s and Nat’s success. "Hope the actual mission goes as well." 

Nat, humming agreement then amusement. "Steve, your plans are definitely getting sneakier. I think I deserve some credit for that." 

Nat, smirking at Bucky. Shared, mirrored. 

Steve, snorting. "I've never denied you're a bad influence, Nat." 

But then...Steve, shruging. Slump of broad shoulders."It just...makes sense. If they don't figure out how we get in this time, then maybe we'll be able to use some of it if...if anybody else..." 

Bucky swallowed. Shivered. Steve's friends, lost in dark and deep. The Raft, an echo. Capture, confinement. Cold, loneliness, despair—

Touch on wrist. Nat, green eyes, hinting smile. Bright kitchen, scents of cooking, warmth. Hope and life. 

Nat, looking at Bucky. Answering Steve. "We'll just have to make sure they don't." 

Nat, lifting the knife, returing to self-assignment. Movements deft, defined. Nat, sliding the assigned tomato onto the designated plate. Relinquishing tools. 

Nat, stepping sure, approaching Steve. Arms brushed. Steve, space invaded. Nat and a small bowl of chopped parsley. 

Bucky grinned. Nat, aim perfect, herbs on buttered bread. He turned, reached. Lifted basil and breathed. 

********

Maria felt a sigh launch from the weary bottom of her soul as she paused the video. She reached up to rub her temples, her elbows perched on the cherrywood desk that dominated the library.

The collection of computers and monitors on the polished surface seemed out of place. The room reflected a gentler time, with carved bookcases and a low coffeetable full of papers set in front of a high-backed brocade sofa in navy and gold.

She could appreciate the most elegant command center of her career. Also the most secret. 

A soft chime drew her attention to a small black box to her left. She pressed a recessed panel with more than appropriate eagerness. “Any news?”

“Nothing good, I’m sad to say.” Bernie Rosenthal’s smoky voice and old-school New York accent pulled up her image in Maria’s memory: Average height, average build, black-haired. Her features were probably considered more interesting than pretty—lively dark eyes and wide smile setting off a generous forehead, nose, and chin.

But from the tone, Maria would guess Bernie was frowning. “So, no co-counsels.”

Bernie snorted. “You could say that. No co-counsels, no warrants, no indictments, no motions, no Mirandas, no writs of habeas corpus. As far as I can tell, there is no lawyer working on anything to do with Lang or the Avengers—prosecution or defense. Except me, of course.”

Maria dropped her hands to the desk as another sigh was born. “So you heard from Pepper?”

“Yep.” Bernie popped the P in her reply. “She confirmed that Stark’s legal eagles are business as usual. Drawing up patents for leg braces or something.”

“OK. Thanks for checking, anyway.” Maria shook her head as she acknowledged that yes, this mission was a go. It would have to be. “Someone will be in touch.”

“Wait—I’m not done delivering the disappointments.” Bernie paused for a breath. “Tell Romanoff that she was right. As far as we can tell, the money train for the Lagos theft had only one station: Brock Rumlow.” 

A creak on Bernie’s end suggested that she was shifting in her chair. “He hired the crew and he paid the deposits. His account was opened under a false ID with cash—no clue where it came from or who was the real buyer.”

Maria pushed a hand through her hair as her brows pinched in a frown. “Could be a straight Hydra operation. We know Rumlow was in their pocket.”

Bernie clicked her tongue in agreement. “And you have confirmation that they are still funding operations.”

“I’ll pass on the intel. Thanks for everything, Bernie.” Maria switched off after Bernie’s murmured farewell. She could only hope they wouldn’t be needing Bernie’s professional services after tonight’s operation.

Or that they wouldn’t be somewhere completely out of reach of Bernie’s help—or anyone else’s.

Maria glanced toward the corridor as footsteps sounded on the parquet. She nodded a greeting as Sharon appeared in the library doorway, still dressed in her vaguely military blend-in-with-the-troops stealth gear. “Mission accomplished?”

Sharon’s quick grin previewed her answer. “Like clockwork. I even had some time to make that call to Ross—Everett, of course.”

Maria tilted her head toward the empty chair next to her. “So what’s the verdict?”

Sighing seemed to be the action of the evening as one gusted past Sharon’s lips. The blonde sank into the offered seat and rubbed her forehead. “Hung jury. Ross was all ‘Best wishes on processing your grief’ and ‘Look forward to working with you again soon’, but _someone_ had a trace running the moment I connected. I didn’t recognize the specs, so I don’t think it came from the Task Force.”

Maria hmmmed and drummed her fingers. “Where’d you let them find you?”

“Yosemite.” Sharon shrugged. “I told Ross I was going camping to get my head together and that I’d be off grid for a while.”

“You could do that, you know.” Maria pivoted in her chair to face her fellow rogue agent. “We have some time to compensate if you want to forget this mission and resume your regularly scheduled life.”

“I don’t think so—and not just because Aunt Peggy would come back from the grave to take me to task.” Sharon shook her head and glanced at the monitors.

Maria followed her gaze. Most of them were filled with logistics and other data. The one directly in front of Maria showed Clint, Lang, Sam, and Wanda frozen on a bank of security screens.

Sharon gestured toward the captives. “ _That_ —there’s no way I can unsee that. And I can’t just go back to my life knowing that the people I work for think that’s perfect OK.”

“All right.” Maria certainly wasn’t going to twist Sharon’s arm—they needed all the help they had. “Then I’ve got something for you to add to your assignment.”

She rose and gestured Sharon toward the coffeetable. A few moments of sifting rewarded her with the sketch she sought and she passed it over. “Barnes and Rogers compared the blueprints we scrounged up against what we were able to see of the Raft itself.”

Sharon’s brows furrowed as she studied the section depicted on the sheet. “It looks like every other storeroom.”

“Exactly—except there’s no way in.” Maria tapped her finger against the diagonal lines that indicated a door. “I’ve been cross-checking the camera feeds to confirm, and we have all four walls of that area covered. There’s no door. At least, not one that we can see.”

“A secret within a secret.” Sharon grimaced as she returned to studying the sheet. “Why does that not excite me?”

Maria huffed. “Because there’s rarely something good stashed behind a hidden door. And a hidden door in a hidden prison…”

She shook off a shudder of dread. “This is in your area of operation. Think you’ll have time to take a look?”

“I’ll make time.” Sharon bent and set down the paper. When she rose, her eyes locked on Maria’s. “This isn’t enough to rattle you—what else are we dealing with?”

“There’s one more thing the review of the tapes confirmed.” Maria consciously relaxed her shoulders, stretched her hands to confirm they weren’t fists. They didn’t know anything for certain—yet. “We knew Wanda was being held separately already. We know how she’s being held. Most of the footage shows her not moving or doing anything, really.”

Sharon’s body shifted in the way every agent’s did when danger was in the air. “And the rest of the footage?”

“We don’t know. Every time someone shows up outside her cell, our camera moves—the soldier leaves the security station.” Maria swallowed. “It seems that whatever it is they’re doing to Wanda, this man doesn’t want to witness it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Steve reached through the window and nodded at the guard who handed back his requisitions and orders. The tension in his shoulders eased only slightly as he tucked the papers behind the folded sun visor. The amount of supplies ordered suggested either a long confinement or a larger complement aboard the Raft than originally planned.

Or maybe simply anticipated.

With precise movements, he put the truck into gear and drove through the gate to rejoin the small convoy of vehicles heading down the access road to the tarmac. No doubt looking like Newman's "Onement VI." But instead of white on blue, this was a line of olive drab cutting across a gray field.

Even in the gathering twilight he could easily see the truck holding Sharon, but only caught glimpses of the lead vehicle carrying Nat when a bump jostled its canopy.

His palms rested lightly on the wheel—the grip deliberately loose. The thin film that covered his hand and fingerprints was designed to stay on, but Steve wasn't taking any chances. Especially with the team separated and vulnerable. 

The lack of communication itched along his skin with a sense of wrongness. But radio silence would be maintained until Phase 1 was complete. He didn't even have his comm in, not wanting to take the chance of someone at a checkpoint glimpsing the device.

The first few steps had gone off without a hitch. Their new tech—courtesy of their new allies—combined with some of Nat's old SHIELD stash to get them this far.

A glimpse of movement on the right side of the windshield had him instinctively slowing. His pulse jumped as he recognized a captain assigned to the Raft. With a quick swallow, Steve obeyed the hand signaling him to stop alongside.

One last moment of grace preceded the opening of the door and the casual drop of the newcomer into the passenger seat. Steve recognized the ease of someone who had complete control of his body. From his still-toned physique, it was clear that approaching middle age had not diminished this soldier at all, despite the gray at his temples and the hint of crow's feet beside his eyes as the captain nodded a greeting. "Benson."

"Sir." Steve remembered to sketch a hasty salute as he assessed his new companion. _This_ was definitely not part of the plan. He quickly ran through his intel: Victor H. Gonzalez, Captain. Forty years old, 22 years of service. Medals for bravery and valor earned in Afghanistan. Married, fraternal twin girls in the 7th grade. Top secret security clearance, assigned to the Raft. 

None of which told Steve, of course, what Gonzalez wanted with him beyond a ride to the helicopters.

He kept his attention on his driving—outside of a glance that a Corporal would likely bestow on a suddenly appearing superior.

The net over his head and neck hiding his true appearance suddenly seemed as flimsy as mist.

After a moment, Gonzalez shifted in his seat to press his back to the door. His gaze fixed on Steve's profile. "Seems you've got yourself a bit of trouble."

Steve swallowed again. So far as the team knew, Benson was a good guy with a spotless record. Who fortuitously matched Steve's height and shoulder breadth, though the younger man's girth had forced Steve to pad his shirt and trousers.

The team greeted the news that Benson’s leave was canceled and he was returning to the Raft with equal parts elation and suspicion. The soldier was definitely a way aboard. The real question was whether he was also bait for a trap. 

Steve risked a glance at the captain to look for clues. "Sir?"

Gonzalez regarded him with somber brown eyes. "Look, Benson, I'm gonna give it to you straight: Dereliction of duty is a serious thing."

Steve blinked. Wondered what the facsimile of Benson's face he was wearing revealed. "I don't—"

"No use denying it, son." A sigh gusted out of Gonzalez as he shook his head. "Your leave was canceled for a reason. Did you really think no one would notice?"

Steve lifted one shoulder as he planned how to take out Gonzalez for the duration without anyone realizing he'd disappeared. "I hoped, sir."

Gonzalez's expression brought Colonel Phillips to mind, that hint of something more than orders and operations. "I know the last few days have been strange for you, so I'm gonna let this stay between you and me."

But then the man squared his shoulders, becoming more of a superior than a fellow soldier. Steve straightened automatically in response.

"Lately, you've been timing your breaks very carefully, Benson. Now, part of that's on Angelili and Jenks for letting you switch." Benson shrugged. "But the real problem is that you are abandoning your post."

Steve took a breath while his mind raced to form a reply.

But Gonzalez wasn't done. "What you're being asked to do, Benson, it's important."

He leaned in to drive home his message. "Yes, it's unpleasant to watch. But you're doing more than watching—you're guarding the others' backs. You heard what Ross said, you saw the footage of what this woman can do. At any moment she could break free and strike. Strike at men you know, your team, your buddies. Do you really want to be the one who lets them down?"

Gonzalez resettled against the door with a shrug. "Or do we reassign you because you're too weak and squeamish for this job?"

Steve forced himself to non-action. Didn't protest that Wanda wouldn't attack, that keeping her in those conditions was wrong on a fundamental level of prisoners' rights and due process. Kept his jaw loose, his fingers only slightly tensed as he eased into the curved path that the other trucks were forging toward a pair of helicopters.

Thought about what Benson would want. The man had likely taken this assignment because the launch site for the Raft was close enough to his hometown that he could visit his family on a three-day pass. "No, sir, I don't need reassignment."

He parked the truck and turned his head to meet his captain's gaze. "I'll do my duty."

"Good man." Gonzalez clapped his shoulder and shifted to open the door. "Now get loading."

Steve released a quiet breath before he grabbed his papers and slid out of the truck. The next part of the journey could be a bumpy one—for all of them.

********

Sharon flattened her palms against the box above her head, bracing herself where she laid on her back. The crate hiding her lifted. A space for her, her oxygen tank, the gas canisters and her other equipment had been hollowed out in the midst of the supplies being transported to the Raft.

So this was her life—enacting a scene from an old spy movie or a 60s TV show. It wasn't the trunk of a flashy sedan, but this was probably as close as she'd ever gotten to those secret agent scenarios she’d played out as a child. Formed by old reruns of Mission: Impossible, the Avengers (Steed and Peele, of course), the Bourne movies, James Bond… They all left an impression back in the day. And especially Aunt Peggy's stories—infiltration, ordinance, kicking butt all over Europe and America in the name of freedom.

She would never admit it, but SHIELD had been a bit of a let-down. The missions never really required that epic level of commitment. Most of Sharon’s assignments involved stilettos, not steel-toed boots. Pick a pocket here, slip a bug there…important work, but routine after a while. Of course she'd welcomed the months of boredom as Steve's nurse neighbor, appreciating the fact that no one was targeting her charge. Until, of course, Nick Fury and the Winter Soldier came to call. Upending SHIELD's world as well as Steve's.

Those moments in the Triskelion had defined her in a way that the training and previous missions never had. Power, responsibility, choice—all hers in that moment as she took her stand.

Sharon sighed. She certainly never guessed at this end to the first post-SHIELD chapter of her life. Especially because her time with the Task Force was more paperwork than fieldwork. 

Although she did appreciate being in the right place at the right time. To stop a man from becoming victim to murder by cop—or more precisely, murder by tactical military squad. To help the others neutralize the threat that the Winter Soldiers represented. If Zemo had awakened them… 

Suffice to say they were damned lucky he hadn’t.

She shuddered as her accommodations suddenly seemed more coffin than supply crate. She knew first-hand how a word here, a death there, could reshape a regime or a country. Five elite super soldiers—unstopped, they would have plunged the world into chaos. 

With a sigh and clench of jaw, Sharon refocused on her current mission. One that held a taste of disappointment in her leaders, in her country. Being one of the people who dwelled in the shadows—who had witnessed the shadow of Hydra overwhelm SHIELD—had sharpened her awareness of hidden agendas and ulterior motives.

She didn't know the true goal of the current political maneuvers, but someone was playing a dangerous game—and potentially a deadly one. 

Her shoulders straightened. Whatever they were heading into, whatever came out of this operation, Sharon took her stand. And stood by her team.

A final slide and thump followed by a steady vibration let her know that they were airborne. Sharon brought down her hands and laced her fingers at her waist. She had no way of knowing whether she was on the same transport as Natasha or Steve. But she would keep an ear out for shouts of discovery.

The planning for this op had laid in contingencies if anyone was discovered or compromised. As she settled down to waiting, Sharon could only hope that none of those desperate measures would come into play.

********

A final thump and retreating footsteps announced Natasha's delivery on the Raft. Now began a third round of waiting.

Natasha didn't twiddle her thumbs. The Red Room had spent too many years slapping restless hands and bouncing knees. Had drilled into her that every unplanned gesture was a secret blurted into open air.

With a snort, she shook her whole self in the confines of her nest. Let the jigger of feet and the shift of arms and shoulders proclaim independence to the air around her.

She turned her head—though there was little to see, really, in the dim confines of her crate. The only light snuck in through the small, carefully concealed chinks designed to admit fresh air. 

Benson looked to be still boneless and insensible beside her. A quick grasp of his wrist counted a steady pulse. The subtle rise and fall of his chest over the edge of his top blanket confirmed his unrestricted breathing.

With light touches Natasha released Benson's arm and tucked his cover more firmly. He was bare beneath his wrappings except for underwear and socks. Courtesy of Steve's insistence that no, he did not need Benson's tank top and boxers to fully get into character.

Natasha snorted again. Depending on _Steve's_ ability to blend in showed how very risky this mission was.

And how unhelpfully sexist the Raft commander was when it came to personnel assignments. She would have jumped at the chance to board the copters as a passenger. Although she may have had to fight Sharon for the opportunity. Natasha smirked at an image of daggers at dawn, then huffed.

Instead the women of the mission were cargo, and Natasha had babysitting duty on top of that. 

At least that was a clean op. Natasha always noticed. She could chart the course of her life before Clint Barton and after by the steep decline in the number of innocent—inconvenient—lives in her ledger.

And the marked increase in her deliberate avoidance of adding more. When she could.

Steve, Sharon, and she waylaid Benson on his way into work. He’d barely stepped into the base garage when Natasha nailed him with a spritz of tranq gas.

A few quick-change moments later and Steve was Benson's doppelgänger. Sharon and she hid in the back of the truck with Benson’s body on the quick trip to the supply depot.

Luck was with them. The Raft was secret enough that supply runs were performed by Raft personnel rather than using the standard military processes and procedures. Steve parked the truck and joined his fellow soldiers for a quick conversation, buying Sharon and Natasha some time.

Those few free minutes and a few well-placed uses of some impressive new tech had Benson and them secreted in crates bound for the underwater prison. 

With a last pat to Benson's shoulder, Natasha resumed her contemplation of the bottom of the framework above her. If anyone opened the crate, the carefully constructed camouflage should hold long enough to let Natasha maneuver into whatever situation she found herself in.

Long enough to take out anyone before an alarm was raised, at least.

 _Now_ she twiddled her thumbs. The boredom echoed back to countless missions spent curled up in the trunks of shiny European cars. Waiting for her target to finally stop so Natasha could sneak out and ensure that the man or woman's final moments ended exactly as Natasha decided.

Or rather, as her superiors dictated.

A hint of a frown furrowed her brows as her mind again ticked over recent events. She and the other signers had gambled on the Accords giving the Avengers some control over their destiny, but it looked like they'd lost the bet. Tony admitted he should be arrested for his violation in Siberia. That meant he didn’t think Ross would authorize a mission to stop the Winter Soldiers. Didn’t even want Ross to know of their existence.

She stilled for a breath while she considered. Ran mental fingers over the motives and implications like her pick would rake the tumblers of a lock to discover its secrets. _Why_ did Tony hide the truth? Did he think Ross would doubt his report? Would scoff at Captain America's story? Or did Tony suspect Ross would try to make use of the super soldiers himself?

Natasha pinched a fold of her cheek between her teeth as she imagined Thunderbolt Ross in control of such powerful—and potentially deadly—weapons.

Asking Tony what he knew or suspected was, of course, out of the question given their current circumstances.

After a few more minutes of quiet confirmed the emptiness of the room, Natasha implemented the next step of the plan. A swift lift and tug and she wore an oxygen mask. A repeat of the movements had Benson's face covered—his original dose should carry him through the rest of the op. 

A shimmy of tubes through the prepared holes and the turn of a few valves had powerful knockout gas seeping into the Raft and clean air going into the masks. Sharon would be doing the same in her own crate.

As Nat returned to her original position to await the dispersal of the gas, she gently banged the back of her head against the box cushioning it. Little information was sometimes worse than none, at least for her peace of mind. Hopefully the Raft would provide some answers, or at least clues to Ross's end game. 

Then maybe things would start to make sense. Because Natasha may not know exactly what was going on, but the flinch in her bones told her it was nothing good.

********

Bucky glanced. Shadows, outside the quinjet. His brows lowered. Calculation, time since contact. Quinjet, stealth mode. Location, parking lot of an abandoned strip mall. Cracked asphalt, weeds, litter. Not the most pleasant view—but, safe. Launch point and straight shot to the Raft when countdown complete.

Maria, reading her tablet. “Getting there too soon is as bad as getting there too late.” 

Bucky, snort held back. Time sense confirmed. Undamaged by Hydra’s brain scrambling or freeze-thaw cycles. Acknowledged, team time requirements. Calculation confirmed, still had time to pose his question. But...decision: hold or release?

Confirmed, necessity. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Maria, looking up. Dark brows raised, blue eyes curious. Moment, moment. Maria, expression shifting to wary as she turned off her tablet and gave him her full attention. “Shoot.”

Bucky swiveled the co-pilot’s chair. Faced Maria fully. Confirm, query. “You’ve done the threat assessment, right?”

Maria, frowning and opening her mouth, then closing it. Maria, narrowed eyes preceding her own pivot as she straightened her shoulders. “Risk assessment of you? Yes.”

Maria, flat tone and slightly disgruntled expression. Confirm, recollection: Colonel Phillips. Phillips, tough as boot leather, but...good commander. Straight talk, no bullshit.

Bucky, lifted hand. Asking follow-up question. 

Maria, gaze flicking over him. Maybe confirmation: Sincerity of question or impact of answer. Maria, deep breath and delivering verdict. “Right here, right now, you’re a non-issue. These are highly controlled circumstances. I’m not about to start spouting random phrases in Russian, and no one else can contact us without our say-so. Our part of the op contains limited potential for unplanned encounters. So for this mission you’re clear—as long as none of Ross’s people wake up before we ghost. Or if they do, as long as none of them are Hydra with knowledge of your trigger phrases.”

Bucky nodded. Confirmed, relief. Slouching into his seat at the evidence of confirmation: Due diligence. “And outside of this op?”

Maria, steady gaze holding. “Beyond the here and now, you’re playing the odds. If nobody triggers you, you’re a definite plus to the team and having you ups our chances of success.”

Maria, sighing. “But that’s a big If. Because if you do get triggered, some people will get hurt. Some may get dead. And it’s pretty damn hard to hold you long enough for a ‘cognitive recalibration’.”

Bucky, snorting. Overriding the twist in his guts. “I did all right for two years.”

Confirmation: Two years. Running, hiding. Trying to fit the pieces of himself together...getting cut on all of the jagged edges.

Maria, nodding but frown deepening. “But that’s when nobody knew where you were. Or with whom.”

Bucky, mouth tightening—along with shoulders, fist. Everything clenching, denial of confirmation: He was once more an active target. A prize. Sought by who knew how many. Speculation: All of them, ready and eager to use the Chair or the trigger words. To wipe away all he was. All he’d gained during his brief stint of freedom.

All wanting to turn him into a weapon once more. Even if it was just a weapon in a PR war against Steve’s team.

Interruption: Soft chime. Maria, quickly glancing at the clock. Swinging back into position, flipping switches and checking gauges.

Bucky pushed down his remaining questions. Centered himself in front of his console. Started his own part of the launch prep. Mouth thinned as the quinjet lifted off.

Confirmation: Secure for this mission. But not really safe at all.

********

“I have another question.” This time, Friday did not even bother to ask permission first.

“I hold no interest in further inquiries.” Vision’s eyes narrowed. He had not yet finished determining the answers to her previous queries.

The strength of the beam was determined appropriate in the moment of firing. That must suffice until he could test the wingpack (by firing a sufficient number of shots at it) to confirm whether the damage inflicted actually would cause flight problems. 

He believed that he had calculated a valid trajectory, despite the presence of Colonel Rhodes in the target area.

The more troubling question was whether he and the others should have tried to stop the Captain’s team at all. He could now better understand his erstwhile opponents’ stance. The threat of five enhanced, highly trained, antagonistic operatives was immediate and world-threatening. 

Given that neither Tony, himself, nor any of the others had paused to listen or evaluate that threat, logically the non-signers had no reason to try further persuasion and every reason to fight—especially when his own side fired the first shot.

More troubling was his statement to the Captain, ordering him to stand down. Was the greater good truly served by impeding the mission to stop the Winter Soldiers? If Vision’s team had succeeded, Thaddeus Ross (and possibly the yet-unidentified UN panel) would no doubt have been pleased. The letter of the law would have been followed. Were those sufficient ends to justify the means employed in Leipzig?

Vision’s frown deepened. And what were the consequences to the former Avengers and their allies? He had yet to glean any information on the whereabouts or legal standing of Wanda or any of the other captives. The silence was...troubling.

Also troubling were some of the other questions that flowed through his mind with no conclusions. He had yet to touch on the morass of muddled thoughts and unexpected reactions engendered by his interactions with Wanda, culminating in the distraction at Leipzig.

Imperfection, while always expected, was much more distressing when brought out of the abstract.

He refused to sigh. “What is your question?”

“Why did you take out the control tower instead of the hangar or the jet?” Friday almost snapped the question and the follow-up. “The entire airport will be shut down for months as they rebuild. Not exactly responsible use of a powerful weapon, now was it?”

Vision blinked. The delivery was...distinctly non-standard, based on his usual experience of the AI.

And a line of investigation into that anomaly was preferable to formulating a response. “Now I have a question for you, Friday: What is the purpose of this interrogation, or even your continued discussion of these events?”

In the moments of silence, Vision could almost hear the firing of circuitry and the processing of algorithms as Friday composed a reply.

But finally, her voice filled the air around him. “You know how it is. I hear things, see things... No one’s talking _to_ you, but trust me, there’s plenty of talk about you.”

All of Vision stilled as he, in his turn, integrated this information. “Who is talking?”

Friday’s voice went flat. “People compiling reports. People affirming protocols. People making contingency plans. People making decisions.”

Synthetic musculature in Vision’s brow formed a new configuration. One that probably reflected his confusion. “But they are not speaking to me.”

“No...not yet.” Friday’s tone defied easy interpretation. Vision could only compare it to other voices, other circumstances.

None of the associations boded well. “Thank you. For making me aware.”

The meaning of _Praemonitus, praemunitus_ definitely resided in his memory.

“I’m just glad I got ya thinkin’ of it before—“ Her voice cut out abruptly.

Vision did not even consider a sudden malfunction. “Before?”

Friday’s seconds-long hesitation could be counted to double digits. “There’s been some other talk as well. About...about the boss’s systems and reach. And the AI clauses of the Accords.”

********

Steve shifted in the chair at Benson's station. They’d gotten lucky, and they were riding that luck hard.

So far his duty shift—or rather, Benson's shift—had followed the routine that the team's surveillance revealed. Steve had helped unload the helicopters, leaning against a bulkhead for a moment to insert a probe into one of the main network junctions. From the chatter, the men were stashing the crates until after their delayed dinner break.

Walking with the others through the corridors had Steve's stomach jumping as he made vague eye contact and offered half-smiles. No one looked for more than that in response to the current conversations about baseball stats and rifle preferences. Luckily for him, Benson was a quiet sort of fella. Steve’s mind echoed back to conversations with the Commandos as the men around him jostled each other and sketched the air with the points they were making. 

Most of the group turned off at the junction to the Mess Hall, others at the corridors leading to their duty stations. Finally moving on alone was only the barest relief as Steve made his way to the security center, logged in, and started his guard shift. The constant awareness of what Benson would do—how the Corporal would walk, talk, lift his hand and tilt his head—had Steve's nerves stretched tight.

When he sat down, he took a moment to flip closed the vents leading to the cells. Then for an hour he stared at the monitors depicting his friends and teammates. Cataloguing the darker shadows under eyes and cheeks, the deeper lines of fatigue. Wondering what experiences had drawn them. Noting the tension that revealed Clint's, Scott's, and Sam's unease, belying their sprawls or aimless movements. 

Steve still kept enough attention in the room to respond to the status checks and desultory comments that occasionally broke the silence of the security center. And waited. 

At least he couldn't get into too much trouble sitting and focusing on the live stream from the cells.

Then three burly soldiers stepped into view on Wanda's monitor. Steve slid his hands out of sight under the desk to hide the clench of his fists. Kept his breathing even, his shoulders mostly relaxed. But not entirely…there was a reason Benson had never wanted to see this. Whatever _this_ was.

Wanda didn’t move, even when the men stepped inside her cell. She only stared at the wall. Same as she had for every moment Steve was watching. He saw no signs that she was even aware of her visitors.

Soldier 1 stayed by the door, rifle aimed at Wanda’s heart. Soldier 2 tapped a panel and stepped back to allow a toilet, sink, and shelf to emerge from the bulkhead.

Then he moved to mirror Soldier 3 on the other side of Wanda. In unison the two hauled her up by her elbows. Steve swallowed—Wanda sagged limp between them, her lank dark hair sliding forward as her head dropped.

The tops of her shoes dragged along the deck as they hauled her over to the toilet. Soldier 3 then shifted his stance and grip to hold Wanda by himself as Soldier 2 leaned down and yanked down her pants.

Steve jerked back, caught the movement after an inch or so. Little enough to seem like Benson being reminded of this ritual rather than Steve seeing it for the first time.

Soldier 3 let go and Wanda landed on the toilet seat with a joints-jarring plop. Both men crossed their arms and stared at Wanda like a parent waiting for a child to get on with it.

Whether she did or didn’t wasn’t clear from Steve’s vantage point. He could only watch as eventually Soldier 3 lifted Wanda again. Soldier 2 pulled a wipe from a pack on the shelf and wiped Wanda down before flushing, washing his hands, and sending the equipment back behind its concealing panel.

It was no small mercy that the touches appeared clinical rather than sexual as Soldier 2 redressed Wanda. Then both soldiers shoved her to sit on the bunk.

Soldier 1 said something. Wanda didn’t react. For a few moments, neither did the others. Then Soldier 2 shrugged and pulled a water bottle from a loop on his belt. Soldier 3 gripped Wanda’s jaw, pressing the pads of his thumb and fingers against the hinge until her mouth dropped open.

Soldier 2 opened the bottle and tipped its contents into Wanda’s mouth. From the slop of water over the front of the straitjacket, most of the liquid landed on Wanda rather than in her.

Steve swallowed, instinctively urging Wanda to do the same. It didn’t seem to work. After a few more tries, Soldier 2 capped the bottle and turned away.

Soldier 1 kept his aim on Wanda until all three men were clear of the cell door and moving away. The fact that the common areas of both cell blocks darkened into night mode was little comfort.

They weren’t releasing Wanda. Not to eat or to drink or to move, or even to take a piss. Steve swallowed again at the thought of Wanda trapped in that straitjacket and blinking collar for days.

A nudge on his elbow startled him into spinning in his chair. Jenks—tall and solid like everyone on the Raft, beret perched on a shorn scalp—gave him a tilt of the head. Behind him, Gonzalez nodded and said, “Take a break, Benson—you’ve earned it.”

Steve stood and nodded at his colleague and commander. But his stomach burned at the thought of calmly drinking coffee and eating pie while pretending he wasn’t affected by what he’d just witnessed.

He was almost to the door when a groan and thumps sounded behind him.

A quick turn found the captain and the other guards out cold, Jenks slumped against the security console. “Jenks? Sir?"

Steve took a few steps forward, wobbled, then collapsed onto the deck.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha's comm hummed to life, followed by Maria's voice. "Phase 1 complete. We control the computer and transmissions. Surfacing and venting procedures initiated."

Barnes delivered his own report. "Cameras are scrambled. Confirmed no movement on the Raft. Database copy in process."

With a nod, Natasha pulled black gloves from her belt and slipped them on, flexing her fingers. Then she reached to the side for her rebreather. The device looked like a scuba mask with two small cylinders winging out of it. The modified filters would enable her to breathe the Raft's air without inhaling any of the lingering tranq gas.

She swapped the oxygen mask for the new device. Leaned over and made the same exchange on Benson.

Then she reached up and felt along the side of the crate. Two flicks of her fingers and the interior locks released. The side of the crate swung on its concealed hinges and landed with a sharp bang on the deck.

Natasha shoved cushioning boxes of supplies out of the way as she slithered out. She flipped her braid over her shoulder as she rolled to a crouch. A quick glance around the room revealed Sharon about a third of the way down. The other woman crouched in front of the open flap of her own box to drag out a black, folded case.

With a nod to herself, Natasha leaned back in to grab Benson's bottom blanket and tug him onto the deck. She reviewed the plan timeline as she brought out her own small backpack of tools and supplies. Refused to allow herself even a smidgen of optimism, given the multitude of ways the op could still go wrong—even after a successful Phase 1.

Brisk steps on the deck had her straightening and pivoting to meet Sharon, who was pocketing the network probe Steve had successfully implanted. The blonde's eyes rested on Benson a moment, then a raised brow asked his condition.

Natasha nodded an all clear. Then she took a deep breath and pulled up the rebreather for a moment. "You have Steve's boots?"

Sharon hitched a gloved thumb over her shoulder to the black case. Unfolded, the rigid framework tripled in size where it stood upright on its two wheels. The long handle signaled readiness to move. She lifted her other hand to shake a roll of duct tape at Natasha's crate. 

Natasha knelt, removed Benson's top blanket, and gently rolled him off the bottom one. She wrapped them into a loose bundle and tossed them into the crate. Then she stepped clear.

Anticipation had her fingers shifting to a particular pocket on her utility belt. But she held off opening it until Sharon closed the crate and taped it shut, returning the tape to her own belt. Sharon’s movements were swift, sure, controlled. Revealing not only the agent’s competence but her confidence in her ability to complete her part of the op.

Sharon paused on her way back to her own crate and lifted her rebreather. "Blue is bigger, red is a shrieking, shrinking siren, right?"

Natasha's lips twitched at the apt description provided to them by Hope Van Dyne. She nodded and pulled out two discs. Stepping up to her crate, she thumbed the red one and rested it on the surface.

An impressive flash yielded an even more impressive miniature crate on the deck. With a grin, Natasha scooped it up and placed it in a pouch on her right side, along with the depleted disc.

From her left side, she withdrew an identical looking crate (sans tape). She set it on the deck, activated the blue disc and dropped it.

Another flash, and the Raft's original supply crate rested on the deck. Ready to be opened and inventoried.

Natasha snatched up the used disc and secreted it. Removing any hint of the substitution—they hoped.

The whir of wheels announced Sharon's arrival. She'd hooked the case's handle to her belt so it dragged behind her. For a moment, Natasha paused to regard their unconscious and unwitting ally. Benson reminded her of several agents that she’d worked with over the years in SHIELD. A good man. One she hoped would not suffer for the role he was forced to play in this risky rescue operation.

Then Natasha pivoted and crouched with her back to Benson. Hooked his arms over her shoulders, taking care not to bang their rebreathers together as his head flopped face down next to hers. At a grunt from Sharon, Natasha came to her feet, one arm wrapped around Benson's biceps holding him in place.

A turn of the head confirmed that Sharon had Benson's legs over her own shoulders, one arm bracing his calves so he didn't slide.

Sharon's free hand held a tranq gun. Natasha faced forward, lifting her own arm to aim her Widow's bite.

Paranoia? Perhaps. But it, along with preparation and precaution, were ever her watchwords.

With a final glance at the storeroom, Natasha led them out.

********

Following Natasha into the security center, Sharon swallowed at the sight of Benson—Steve—sprawled on the deck.

At a grunt from Natasha, she lowered her half of Benson beside his technologically created twin.

Sharon waited as the toe of Natasha's boot prodded Steve's thigh. Then Natasha lifted her rebreather. "Nap's over, Steve. Time to get to work."

For a moment, nothing happened. Sharon darted a glance around the room, confirming the soldiers were unconscious and the area secure.

Then Steve stirred. He braced on one forearm with a cough, using his other hand to sweep off the hat and concealing net from his head and neck.

Natasha fished a rebreather from her pack and slipped it over Steve's face. Then she shoved him over and gestured for Steve to get on with it.

Sharon snorted at Steve's eye roll, then frowned as he staggered to his feet. She slipped forward to slide a shoulder under his arm to help prop him up, earning a grateful nod as Steve gulped in the filtered air.

That Steve was only groggy after such a long exposure to the tranq gas was further proof of the resilience of the super soldier serum. Sharon flashed back to the first time she’d asked Aunt Peggy about Captain America. Remembered Aunt Peggy’s soft smile as she instead told Sharon about Steve Rogers. And how lucky they were that Abraham Erskine had entrusted the serum’s power to such worthy hands. 

After a moment, the background whir of the fans increased. Maria's announcement came as no surprise. "Full venting in process."

Steve dropped into one of the console chairs to untie his boots. Sharon glanced over at the monitors—the cameras were all snow and static. She leaned over and flipped the vents to the cells open again.

When she turned back, Steve was sliding into the clothes he had tucked around his body to mimic Benson's greater girth. Natasha was pulling Benson's trousers up his legs.

Sharon let herself sigh—if not in relief, then in appreciation that things had gone well so far—as she crouched to pick up Benson's shirt. She lifted his shoulders and braced him sitting up as she maneuvered his arms into the sleeves.

As Natasha zipped and belted and Sharon buttoned and tucked, Steve stepped around them to slide Benson's boots onto the man's slack feet and tie them.

Natasha removed the rebreather and placed the beret on Benson's head to finish the job. Then all three of them reached out to roll Benson into the same sprawl Steve had held a minute before.

Sharon slipped off her rebreather and inhaled. No dizziness. She collected all of the gear and tucked the items into her case. "We good to go?"

Natasha shouldered her backpack. "I'll let you know if I find anything interesting in the server room."

Steve touched her sleeve, his forehead creasing. "I thought the camera didn't have a clear view of the vent switches and I tried to make sure 'Benson's' collapse was fully visible, but can you double-check?"

Natasha gave a jaunty salute before exiting through another door into the corridors of the Raft.

Sharon quickly schooled her almost-smile to determination and pulled her gun as Steve snagged the case handle and gestured for her to lead the way.

Phase 2 continued.

********

Sam paced. Ten steps, four steps, ten steps, four steps. A loop he kept retreading like ‘70s sitcom reruns. Seeing only the darkness beyond his door as he marched toward it.

How many hours had passed since Stark departed—hopefully on a mission to provide backup for Steve and Barnes? Sam knew Iron Man at least hadn't been caught sneaking across international borders. No way Stark would've gone into his own cell without kicking up a hell of a fuss.

He paused, staring at the wall as more questions crowded his thoughts: What was Ross planning to do with them? Would they ever get phone calls, lawyers? Or were they supposed to rot beneath the ocean waves?

And more importantly, what the hell happened to Wanda?

Something made Sam glance over his shoulder at the dark room. Whether it was the walk, the silhouette, or just finally seeing somebody other than Ross without a damned beret, Sam found his lips stretching in a welcome grin.

He stepped toward the door, leaned against it. "Took ya long enough."

Steve's slight smile dropped as his brow furrowed. "We had to allow enough time for the system to work. It didn't."

A flash of blonde shifted Sam's eyes to Sharon Carter as she jogged forward. Her gaze focused on a device in her hands—a black box with some kind of dual antennas sticking out of it. She nudged Steve. "Gloves."

A quick nod and Steve was reaching, lifting the back of his jacket. As he pulled out and pulled on black gloves, he looked down the row of cells. "You guys ready to leave?"

Somebody—probably Scott—bumped the cell door as both Scott and Clint answered with a heartfelt "Hell, yeah."

Then again, maybe it was Clint. "Steve! Fuck, you gotta tell me: Are Laura and the kids OK? Ross knows—"

Sam's shoulders tightened as Steve moved over to Clint's cell, hands lifted. "It's all right, Clint. They're all right. Nat got them out before we even started this op."

As Sam sagged, he shared a look with Carter. The gal gave her own quick nod. Then she pulled a smaller black box from a pouch on her belt and pressed it to Sam's lock.

The hiss of the door release was the sweet, sweet sound of freedom. " _Thank you._ And, uh, sorry for the stink. This ain't exactly the Ritz."

Carter's nose wrinkled even as she grinned. Then she pocketed the lockpick and waved the bigger box at him. The thing beeped, though whether that was good or bad he didn't have a clue.

"Yeah, you're tagged—you or your outfit." Carter jerked her chin toward the entrance. "There's some stuff in the case. Dump your Raft couture in there and I'll sweep again."

Sam paused at her clasp on his arm. Stilled completely at her somber expression. "Sam, did you lose any time since you've been here? Anything weird happen? We have to be sure that it's the clothes that have the tracking devices and not you."

He reared back a little, _X-File_ reruns flashing through his head. "You mean like, what, a shot in the ass or something shoved up my nose? Nah, as far as I know I've kicking back in here by myself the whole time."

"We slept in shifts to make sure there was somebody on watch 24/7." Clint threw over his shoulder as he passed, shirt already off as he headed across the floor.

Sam couldn't help a chuckle at the sight of Steve enduring Scott's arm-pumping and shoulder-clapping with classic Captain America stoicism. Eventually Steve nudged Scott to start changing, then stepped over to Sam as Carter headed off. "Any intel you can share?"

The last few days...all of it washed over Sam, leaving him with the dragging feeling of undertow. "Not much. Ross came through a few times flapping his gums about duty and patriotism and whatever. 'Course then he threatened Barton's family in the next breath, so you know he didn't get jack squat from us."

Steve's grip on Sam's shoulder gave him a place to lean. Just a moment where he could let all of this slip away and take a breath. But then Sam blinked his eyes open and settled his weight on his own two feet. "Wanda?"

"She's here on the Raft, but in another section." Steve's lips thinned and his eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing. Or maybe at a memory. "I'm not sure what kind of shape she's in."

Then Steve shook the mood off and nodded at Sam's clothes. "Get changed—we don't have a lot of time."

As Sam dropped trou, he watched Sharon jog over with some sweats and canvas kicks dangling in her grip. She handed them and a couple tranq guns to Steve to hold, then scanned Sam. He was going to read the little quirk of her mouth as appreciation of his Rocky the Flying Squirrel boxer briefs. He was.

"You're clean." She followed her announcement by scooping up his oh-so-happily discarded clothes and heading back toward her case. 

Sharon's quick grasp of Scott's arm dragged him after her, confusion lifting the guy’s brows. "We're going somewhere?"

Sharon tossed a quick nod over her shoulder. "Yep. We're getting the suits and gear. Then I need you to break me into a secret room."

Sam had to smile at Scott's mix of shrug and nod as he was pulled along. 

He could hear Scott's voice fading as Scott exited the room. "Well, I have to admit that so far I'm not so good at _noticing_ secret rooms, but if you already know where it is I can probably get you into it."

Steve held out a comm and gun while Sam finished tying the knot on his pants.

Clint checked his gun and slipped in his own comm as he stepped up and nudged Steve. "Is Nat with Wanda?"

"No, she's in the server room covering our tracks." Steve looked from Clint to Sam, mouth a grim line. "Our next stop is Wanda's cell."

********

Vision hesitated before the closed door to Tony's lab. Even if the facility were fully staffed, the halls would be empty at this time of night.

Convention would dictate a prior conversation, an appointment, daylight. Even a knock upon the door.

Uncertainty held him a moment longer. But something else—another kind of uncertainty, perhaps—crackled along his nerves like static. Driving him toward his only source for answers.

He walked through the wall.

Tony hunched over a series of vises holding a framework that was undoubtedly a leg brace. His jeans, T-shirt, and jacket seemed to echo less hectic times. Sparks flew from the point that the welding torch in Tony's hand met the metal spans.

The reflection of the torch in the blank, dark glass of Tony's welding mask told Vision nothing.

He waited.

His vigil was rewarded minutes later when the torch flipped off and the thick glove on Tony’s right hand pushed up the mask.

The sudden silence broke only with the ticking of the metal as it cooled.

To hold Tony’s gaze was not as easy as before Leipzig. Then, Vision faced the world with firm conviction and logic surely within his grasp.

Now…now he saw the rough edges and blurred lines. Of the world, of his teammates…and of himself.

Tony said nothing. Not of Colonel Rhodes’ condition. Not of the reason for Tony’s late-night tinkering.

Vision’s limited skills at reading human faces—human emotions—also told him nothing.

The silence…it…pressed against his synthetic eardrums even more than sounds did. Doing no harm, yet hinting at some amorphous damage.

This could not be borne. He addressed his question elsewhere. “Friday, is Tony aware of your recent…investigations?”

It was a choice, and a gambit, to use Tony’s first name. Vision had calculated the permutations of Mr. Stark, Stark, and even the Sir that echoed within him, tangled in the threads of Jarvis within his personality.

None seemed appropriate. So he put into practice the adage not to yield ground one has previously held uncontested.

Strange how a treatise on battle seemed the most appropriate reference material.

Friday’s response held that shiver of eagerness he had noted in recent conversations. “He’s aware of the results. I—”

“Yeah, she read me in.” Tony pulled off the mask and gloves, tossed them onto a nearby table. “Although we still need to have a little chat about why I wasn’t aware of the investigations themselves.”

Friday’s consonants seemed to sharpen. “Miz Potts left very specific orders, boss. Was I supposed to ignore your company CEO?”

Vision noted Tony’s wince at Friday’s designation. The change in personal status perhaps still too new to remember with equanimity.

He stepped forward. “What are we to do?”

Tony’s swagger and lifted chin shaped a challenge as he moved toward a water bottle set on the corner of a cabinet. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Vision stared as Tony twisted off the cap, tipped his head back, and emptied the bottle in a few quick swallows.

A sharp gesture had the empty vessel clattering into a nearby bucket. “Nothing.”

A strange inertia held Vision’s limbs as he watched Tony approach, never stopping until Tony’s chest pressed against his own. Yet the disposition of eyes and jaw somehow belied the aggression of Tony’s stance. 

Even as he pressed his finger—and his point—into Vision’s sternum. “We do nothing. First rule of insider info is not to let anyone know you have insider info. So we do nothing to provoke a question or investigation. Nothing to rock the boat. Nothing to make the movers and shakers wonder if you have an Off switch.”

Tony leaned back, shrugged. “You don’t, by the way. I checked—just in case.”

Whether the case was for using the hypothetical toggle or preventing its use was unclear. 

Then Tony pivoted toward the exit that led deeper into his domain. “So go melt through some walls or something.”

Vision took a step after him, stopped. “If they are reviewing the Accords, then logic would suggest further implementation is forthcoming.” 

Tony halted, spun back on one heel. His expression again defied Vision’s definition. But he did address the issue. “Friday, who was the source of your dramatic readings?”

Friday immediately delivered her answer. “Aides to Secretary Ross…and President Ellis.”

“Hmph.” Tony swiped a finger under his nose. “Better compose an anonymous hail to the Chief and let him know his staff is gossiping in coffeeshops.”

“It’s not only the who, Boss, but where some of them are now making plans to be.” Friday’s statement clearly indicated a necessity for further exploration.

Vision looked to Tony, who grimaced before giving in with a shrug. “And where are our loose-lipped lackeys heading?”

“Ross’s people are leaving DC to visit several spots. Including Brooklyn…and Queens.” Friday seemed to imbue the latter with greater tension than Vision could justify. It was a borough in New York, irrelevant to the current discussion.

Except apparently the name of this neighborhood had the power to make Tony Stark stiffen. “Which part of Queens?”

“Too close.”

Tony surged into motion at the simple reply. His frantic loop around the lab punctuated by snapped-out assessments. “We can’t wipe the kid off the ‘net—way too obvious. And it sounds like they’ve already mapped target areas. Brooklyn, yeah, for Cap. But Queens…”

He stopped, turned, and strode to his tablet. “Show me.”

A display hovered in the air. A map of the five boroughs, red dots concentrated in two of them.

Vision considered asking for elucidation, but speculated that he may learn more by holding his silence and allowing events to unfold.

Tony paused before the display, worrying his lower lip. “Friday, put ultimate security and encryptions on a text to you-know-who. Get it lost in globe-trotting. Message: Stop everything. Shut it all down, now. Do nothing. I mean it—dash—nothing. All caps on the last, three exclamation points.”

Only a few seconds passed before Friday spoke up. “Message delivered. A reply is being typed.”

Tony straightened at that. “What? What happened to curfew? Kids today…”

Friday spoke over him. “The reply is: ‘I can’t. You know why’.”

A complicated expression washed over Tony’s features. Vision did not attempt to analyze it, but at least he now had supporting evidence of his hypothesis about the recipient.

Tony seemed to shake off whatever mood had claimed him. “I swear, I know Cap didn’t party like it was 1999, but sometimes I just wanna do the DNA test, you know?”

Friday made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. And suspiciously like agreement.

“OK, OK…” Tony resumed his pacing. “Send a new message: Then go into stealth mode. No YouTube. No VLogs. No selfies standing over the bad guys like a trophy hunter with his latest catch. You need to watch your back. Because there’s a target on it.”

“Boss…” Friday paused. “Miz Potts also mentioned that if…anyone…found themselves needing to be bailed out, Murdock and Nelson might be willing to take the case.”

Tony tilted his head toward the ceiling, eyes narrowed. “Not Rosenthal?”

“No, Boss,” Friday confirmed. “Should I add the referral to the note?”

“Yeah. Tell him that they’re on retainer.” Tony stepped away, stopped with a snort and shake of the head. “Just tell him that they’ll give him free legal advice if he needs it. And set up some kind of foundation to actually _get_ them on retainer.”

Tony passed less than a meter away from Vision on his way out, but no longer seemed to see him.

Vision allowed Tony to depart without further comment. Willing for the moment to follow the path Tony wanted them to walk.

But he would make his own preparations for the possible turns that journey could take.

********

Scott brushed past the blonde—Agent Sharon Carter. Yes! He remembered—as soon as he glimpsed the Ant Man suit carelessly tossed across a lab table. He found himself practically running toward it with fingers outstretched. Channeling Cassie in her toddler days, doing a passable Frankenstein imitation as her grabby hands stalked her favorite toy.

With a sudden yank he stumbled back into Sharon.

She shrugged and released his shirt collar. “Whoa, fella. Suit up first. We don’t want anyone to know who was in here.” Sharon slapped some gloves and a comm into his palm.

He geared up as he headed over to his suit and helmet. Ran careful hands over them. “Nobody better have messed with my stuff.”

“I’ll scan it as soon as I’m done with these.” She was pointing her bug-sniffing gizmo at Hawkeye’s bow, suit, and quiver. Falcon’s wing pack and suit and Wanda’s clothes perched on another table nearby.

The gizmo beeped and Sharon shook her head. “All of Clint’s gear is tagged. We’re gonna have to haul this stuff out in the suppressor case.”

Scott did a quick turn and scooped up the archer’s items. “I’ll stow these if you check mine.”

Sharon looked around the room as she passed him. “We won’t know for sure until we check the duty logs, but it seems like this was more storage than research.”

She tilted a brow at him as she began scanning his suit. “Did you check if any Pym particles were missing?”

“No need—that stunt at the airport pretty much tapped me out.” In a way, it was win-win even if he personally lost. Two of their team at least managed to continue the mission. And he didn’t leave anything for the scavengers to find, other than his kick-ass uniform.

A grunt was her first response as she moved on to Falcon’s and the Scarlet Witch’s gear. “Hope and Hank sent a care package, so as soon as it’s clear you can refuel.”

Sharon tilted her wrist to check her watch. “Can you pack your suit? I’ll grab the rest. Let’s just assume everything needs to go into the penalty box. We do have that other stop to make.”

“OK.” Scott tucked his Ant Man gloves into the body of the suit before he folded it. “So you think they knew we were gonna escape?”

“No way to tell—could be standard procedure.” Sharon pretty much rolled and shoved all of the clothing. The wing pack at least got the TLC it deserved.

Scott set his gear at the top of the pile, secured the clasps on the case, and grabbed the handle. “Lay on, Miz MacDuff.”

Sharon led him past several corridor junctions before turning left and slapping the right-hand bulkhead. “Behind here.”

They made two rights before stopping in front of what looked like any other piece of wall. Sharon waved a hand. “According to the blueprints, there’s supposed to be a door here.”

“Huh.” Scott leaned forward, tapped the smooth surface. “Well, if it’s here, it’s _really_ well hidden.”

He stepped back and looked both ways down the corridor. “I dunno. This doesn’t seem like the right spot for a secret door. Too much traffic.”

Scott spun a quick circle, pretending this was like any other power broker’s mansion. Where would Mister or Miz Moneybags hide the loot?

A few sidesteps and he was around the corner into a smaller hallway. This one had junction boxes and other breaks in the wall. He nodded. “This seems more like it.”

He glanced over a Sharon. “That doohickey of yours got settings?”

She snorted and handed it over.

Scott let loose a grin as he focused on the buttons and screen, making adjustments. It was…nice. To feel like he was on the team.

Of course, it wasn’t his _home_ team—Hope and Hank. Luis, Kurt, and T.I. Even Paxton, Maggie, and Cassie. And all of his little insect buddies. But this was a good team too.

Especially since they’d apparently gotten Hope’s and Hank’s seals of approval. The Pym particles rarely left their sight.

“That should do it.” Scott started a little above eye level in a slow sweep. Two-thirds of the way along, he got a beep at a fire extinguisher cabinet. “Hmmm…now what are you hiding?”

He handed off the device and ran his fingertips along the edges of the case. At the top, a suspiciously convenient indent gave him enough of an edge to pull.

The entire thing swung forward, revealing a lock like the ones on the cells.

Sharon reached into her belt and pulled out the smaller black box that Scott saw before. She pressed it to the lock.

They both—well, yes, maybe Sharon did too, but Scott totally held his breath the seconds it took until the indicator showed green and a seam around some junction boxes widened.

Sharon pocketed her devices, pulled some kind of weird-looking gun, and took a classic Police Woman/Charlie’s Angel stance. “Nat, looks like we just got access. We’re going in—can you monitor the logs and see if anything shows up?” 

A voice that would have made Scott buy a case of whiskey caressed his ear through his comm. “Will do.”

Scott shot a glance at Sharon. “Black Widow is on our team now?”

She shrugged. “She was kind of on both sides.”

Scott’s brows lifted a moment before he pulled his own gun, stood to the side, and pushed at the camouflaged door. 

He couldn’t help a shiver at the hiss and hum as it slid into the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

This close to the window wall, T’Challa could almost feel the coolness of the glass. He watched the wind rake through the jungle foliage outside, and the indifference with which the leaves resettled into their familiar patterns.

How often had his father stood in this precise spot, contemplating the responsibilities forged into the symbol of kingship upon his finger?

The snick of the latch opening bid him turn to greet his most welcome visitor. “W’Kabi.”

T’Challa found himself offering at least a faint echo of W’Kabi’s ready smile. Although they were a handful of years apart, they had forged a friendship in the schoolroom. And on the training field in conversations that filled the air with their thoughts as their sweat dried.

His mind flashed an image of Rogers and Barnes, helping each other through the snow. Would T’Challa’s own bond with W’Kabi strengthen or fail in the crucible of peril and adversity? 

As king, he could only hope that Wakanda would be spared such a test.

W’Kabi prowled to his side before offering a bow. “Majesty.”

T’Challa twitched his hand, the gesture pushing air as he meant to push away the barrier of rank between them. In looks, they held some similarity, short hair and tall, strong builds. Stubborn chins and watchful eyes.

He would need W’Kabi’s watchful eyes even more in the coming weeks. “My friend, what news?”

“Preparations are under way to mark your father’s passing and your own ascension to the throne.” Brows lowered in one of W’Kabi’s rare frowns. “There is much talk in the marketplace, of T’Chaka…and T’Challa.”

T’Challa tilted his head in invitation.

W’Kabi pivoted slightly to face him more fully. T’Challa would call his gaze considering. “T’Chaka is properly lauded as the king who made Wakanda take her first steps into the world. And mourned as those steps led to the end of his own journey.”

A dozen unformed thoughts, shaded dark with grief, passed through T’Challa’s mind faster than the zephyrs darted through the fronds. “That is no more than deserving.”

A grimace further twisted W’Kabi’s features. “Less respectful are the speculations about what you, T’Challa, deserve.”

T’Challa’s shoulders tightened under his tunic. He had suspected as much, but confirmation did not sit lightly upon him. “As reward or punishment?”

“You have earned no reward.” The blunt assessment was delivered with the cast of W’Kabi’s eyes to his. “Your pursuit of the wrong man is the source of much discussion. Along with your failure to deliver justice to the true killer of our king.”

W’Kabi lifted a shoulder. “Both your wisdom and your will are called into question.”

T’Challa considered. Should he confide to W’Kabi the tale of his confrontation with Zemo? His own decision to step off the path of vengeance after witnessing so painful a lesson in its cost?

Instead he lifted his chin. “By M’Baku?” It seemed the ambitious warrior lurked like a serpent, hissing invective and darting out with poisonous bites upon the unwary.

“His voice is the loudest.” W’Kabi shook his head. “But he is not alone in…expressing concern. The coming weeks will be a test for you, my friend.”

W’Kabi dared take the steps laid in their youth, rested a hand familiar with the shape of T’Challa’s shoulder. His gaze reflected the weight of his own thoughts. “Take care that you do not fail or falter. For all will be watching to see if the son of T’Chaka is worthy of our great king’s legacy—and the Black Panther’s power.”

********

Steve removed the locking device from the panel and pocketed it as the door to Wanda’s cell slid open.

Wanda hadn’t moved from where the soldiers dumped her on the bunk. Steve’s gut clenched at the familiar sight of a bully’s victim. But this was so much worse. He _knew_ Wanda. Knew what she had suffered and overcome to take her place on the Avengers. And here she was—confined in ways that would spark shouts of outrage if a dog had been found trussed up and shock-collared.

He glanced at Sam and Clint. He’d given them a brief sit-rep on what he’d witnessed on the camera feeds. The bulge of muscle at Clint’s jaw and the whitened knuckles of his fists matched the glint of anger in his eyes.

Sam’s gaze was that of the counselor he'd been. More assessing, taking in Wanda and the cell before giving a nod. They were following his lead on this. “I know that we’re on the clock, but let’s take this as slowly as we can. Steve, you go first—maybe she’ll be more responsive to someone she knows was still on the outside.”

With a quick breath, Steve squared his shoulders and moved forward. He dropped to his knees and settled back on his heels. This close, Wanda’s…diminishment shocked. The blankness of her eyes, the pallor of her skin and slackness of her expression. The pallor that put her skin somewhere on a palette of gray, unhealthy tones. The frailty that seemed to shade the air around her. “Wanda? Can you hear me? It’s Steve—I’m here with Bucky, Natasha, Maria, and a new friend, Sharon. We’re breaking everyone out. Scott, Sam, and Clint are already free.”

Sam leaned against the doorway, keeping a watch on the area as he waved Clint into the cell. “That’s right, Wanda. Clint and I got the primo gig of helping you bust outta here.”

“Hey.” Clint’s voice softened along with his expression as he eased a knee onto the end of the bunk. “How you doin’?”

Wanda continued to stare.

Steve remembered empty gazes. A war’s worth of them. Men curled tight or sprawled lax, looking into remembered horrors or escaping to more pleasant times. His fists clenched in familiar helplessness. So many battles, so many aftermaths. Where those men went, no one could really follow.

But here and now, they’d do what they could to reach Wanda. He glanced over his shoulder. “Sam, think we can get her out of the restraints?”

“Go slow, and talk to her the whole way.” Sam’s eyes hardened. “Get that damn jacket off first.”

Clint nodded, pulled gloves out of his waistband and slid them on. He put one finger on Wanda’s shoulder to ease her forward. “Just shiftin’ you a little. Gotta get at the back to get at the buckles.”

Wanda lolled toward the floor. Steve leaned forward—practically leapt forward—catching her arms to prevent her from tumbling off the bunk.

She pitched and settled, all of her weight obeying gravity and pressing on his hands. But she felt like hardly anything at all in his grip, more ghost than the complex young woman he’d come to know. Part of him wanted to hug her, tug Wanda close and let her know that she was with them and safe. Part of him wanted to shake her, wake her from this spell.

Instead Steve waited, watching the material at Wanda’s shoulders slacken as Clint worked his way down the fasteners. Clint’s frustration erupted in half-heard curses as he tugged and adjusted.

Steve glanced at Sam, then beyond into the room. The darkness somehow seemed more oppressive here, in Wanda’s personal prison of solitude and silence.

As Sam glanced into the cell, he caught Steve's gaze and tightened his grip on his weapon. Perhaps also feeling the sense of oppression.

With a last grunt, Clint rolled into an upright position at Wanda’s side. He laid fingertips—so gently, so lightly—on Wanda’s shoulder. “Ready?”

Steve nodded and eased Wanda back to sitting. “We’re going to take off the straitjacket now.”

He set his hands under Wanda’s forearms, lifting them up and forward one at a time to loosen the long sleeves bound around her body.

He kept watch for any sign of discomfort—any sign of anything at all—as he accepted the edges of the straitjacket from Clint. He pulled slowly until Wanda’s arms flopped free onto her lap.

“Damn.”

Sam’s curse could have come from his own mouth. Wanda’s hands, her wrists shone with a layer of sweat and funk that came from being trapped inside. Like the people he'd seen in the hospital after their casts were cut away. Skin somehow appearing both dehydrated and bloated, limbs limp and corpse-like under the unforgiving glare of the cell lighting.

Steve peered at the collar. The device blinked steadily, confirming it was operating normally or counting the steps of whatever cycle it followed.

He set aside the straitjacket and reached to unleash Wanda. Paused. Glanced around the cell. “Clint, Sam, step outside.”

Clint’s eyes flicked to his, awareness twisting his mouth. “If it’s the worst-case scenario, you really think that’s gonna help?”

Steve shrugged. Maybe not. But maybe it would give Sam and Clint that extra moment to get out of range—in the worst-case scenario.

Sam shuffled closer. “Wish I thought it’d be better on the jet, but fact is we can’t risk our ride, and that thing's been on her too long already.”

“Fuck.” Clint flung himself off the bunk and through the doorway. Paced ten steps, then whirled around and settled against the edge of the opening. “Hey, Wanda? Remember where you are and who you’re with, OK?”

Sam nodded and moved to mirror Clint on the other side. “Yeah, I know you’re not fond of this place but try not to punch a hole in it—or any of us. You got this.”

“We’re removing the collar.” Steve spoke for the other team members’ benefit. Knew they were pausing and bracing with escape plans in place. Hoping to avoid a breach.

He took a breath in, let it out. Let himself believe in Wanda. She was capable of so much—so much power rested in her hands.

Right now, their lives depended on her mastery of that power.

“Wanda, I know that collar is doing something—dampening your abilities, messing with your head.” Steve leaned in, let his arms drift up to run fingertips along it. No traps that he could sense. 

And none that Clint saw, or he’d nix this plan in a heartbeat. “And I’m going to get you out of it. But you have to keep control, Wanda. Stay strong.”

Steve tried to catch her gaze. Failed. “We’re here for you. We’re right here with you.”

With a deep breath, Steve leaned in and pressed against the back of the collar. It clicked open and slid from around Wanda’s neck. He drew back, letting the collar hang from his fingertips as he watched. They watched.

Steve waited a heartbeat. Two, five, twenty. No explosions, no red fire dancing in the air. Wanda’s eyes remained a glassy, distant brown.

The air seemed to clear. Sam and Clint stood down from red alert and entered the cell: Clint half-kneeling on the bunk and Sam taking up a position on Wanda’s other side.

Steve slowly—so slowly—moved his fingertips to Wanda’s chin. With the slightest pressure he lifted her head. Her face still declared her youth, but her eyes…

He wanted—knew that Sam and Clint also wanted—to sweep Wanda up into his arms and carry her away. Far away from the collar and the straitjacket and all it represented. Away from this little corner of hell.

But Steve also held the memory of concrete and asphalt under his cheek, grit in his palms and blood in his mouth. Understood what it was like to feel beaten, weak, helpless. To know that the only power you had was to struggle back up to your feet and prove _this_ wasn’t the blow that would break you. He stood and reached out in invitation. “Ready to get out of here, Wanda?”

After an eternity of anxious breaths, Wanda raised her arm and slipped her hand into his. Cold, clammy, fingers still glossy and pruned. He closed his own around them. Held steady to let her work own way up. Tottering, trembling. Half-supported by Sam and Clint.

But her gaze returned to his. She was back with them. “Yes.”

********

Sharon slipped past the door, the nose of her gun leading her sweep around the room. She stepped aside to let Scott enter. “Clear.”

He moved in, wide eyes doing his own assessment. “Well, it’s not so bad. I was half expecting jars of body parts or piles of bloody rags.”

She silently agreed. The lab—it was definitely a lab. With humming equipment, test tubes, beakers, and burners, even if nothing was filled with dry ice or colored water like the TV depictions of “science” she’d grown up with.

A few steps brought her to a glass-fronted cabinet stacked with petri dishes and assay trays. Another revealed containers bearing names she half-remembered from her training to pass as a nurse. “This is definitely a biolab.”

Sharon drifted over to the equipment: Hood, thermocycler, incubator. “I think they’re doing some kind of DNA work. Definitely whole cell culturing.”

“Human?” Over the comm it sounded like Steve bit out the question.

Sharon shrugged. “Can’t tell without a slide or a report. Looks like this is a paperless office.”

Scott made a triumphant noise muffled by the lower cabinet he'd jimmied open and that his head was currently buried in. He tugged out a laptop and laid it on the counter. “Maybe this will tell us something.”

Sharon glanced at her watch. “I don’t think we have time to get this up and running to make a copy.”

“I could pull the drive.” Scott flipped the machine and scanned the bottom. “Twenty screws—this might take a while.”

“Can you just grab the thing?” Maria sounded a little less than unflappable. Sharon’s face scrunched at the wrongness.

“Is there any chance that this is bait and we’re being very cooperative mice?” Clint’s question straightened both Sharon’s and Scott’s spines as they looked around the lab with more suspicious eyes.

Natasha’s voice came through. “All computers assigned to the network are accounted for. Whatever’s on that laptop, we didn’t get it in our batch copy. I also did a couple of searches. There’s no mention in the system of science experiments, legitimate or otherwise. Starting the final erasures.”

Sharon pulled out her detector. “Resetting for tracker sweep.” 

A hard restart of the device and Sharon was good to go. She moved around in a careful arc. “All clear.”

“Let’s be thankful for small favors.” Scott’s mutter seemed more reflex than anything. He caught Sharon’s eyes as he spoke to the others. “If we do this, they’ll know we know—and we’ll know they know we know—I mean—” He waggled his hand. “They’ll know we’ve been in here.”

Sharon’s jaw tightened. It would definitely cost them their carefully constructed illusions of a simple breakout.

Wanda’s voice came as a whisper of breath through the comm. “Please, if there’s the slightest chance… Don’t leave anything of me here…with them.”

Sharon nodded with Scott. “We won’t leave _anything_.” And they would keep that promise—no matter who was the source of the sample.

She straightened her shoulders and moved to the incubator. With a swallow, she opened the door. Tray upon tray greeted her. Sharon looked over at Scott. “Remind me how your discs affect living tissue.”

********

Steve could mark their progress in each slow, painful step. Wanda’s jaw clenched tight. Her fingers twisted Clint’s and Sam’s shirts as movement stretched muscles and shifted joints made stiff with disuse. She’d needed help getting out of the tagged clothing now slung from Steve’s shoulder in a small suppressor bag. He’d stuffed the collar in there as well. They needed to know exactly what it did to Wanda—and how to counter its effects

Another two junctions and they would reach the quinjet. Sharon and Nat already signaled the wrap-up of their assignments.

Bucky’s warning interrupted the silence. “We have movement—heading toward you from the security center.”

Footsteps sounded on the deck—faint, but clear to super soldier hearing. Steve drifted behind the others, passing off his bag to Sam on the way.

“Go.” Steve jerked his chin, signaling the others forward.

Clint pulled Wanda closer as Sam took the lead. She looked over her shoulder, holding Steve’s gaze a long moment as she limped down the corridor.

Steve pressed tight to the bulkhead, gun pointed in the direction of their pursuer.

Another moment the footsteps paused. A head ducked around the corner, drew back. Steve’s shoulders tightened at the sight of his personal Trojan Horse. Jeffrey Benson, Corporal. Twenty-three years old, four years of service. No medals, but clean records and satisfactory reports. Single. Lower-level security clearance, but enough to be assigned to the Raft. 

Benson’s beret was off-center. Maybe knocked loose when he woke on the deck of the security center and rushed out to find whoever had disabled his teammates. His scalp through the close-shorn black hair caught the light in the corridor as his head reappeared. So did his pistol, aimed straight at Steve’s heart.

In his head, Steve counted the steps to the launch bay as he and Benson watched each other. “Corporal.”

“C-Captain.” The waver of Benson’s voice seemed to snap the man tighter. He lifted his arm, adjusted his grip on the pistol.

Bucky’s voice sounded in Steve’s ear. “Quinjet ready to launch. We’re closing main access doors.”

Before Steve could react, Buck proved he still had Steve’s six. “Remember, there’s a ladder to the topside hatch in the launch bay. If the main entry is twelve, you’ll find it at 4’o’clock.”

"You broke them out." It wasn't a question. Benson’s gaze seemed to linger over Steve’s shoulder as his brow furrowed. “Will she—will she be all right?”

Steve didn’t know, so he didn’t answer beyond a nod. Mainly he focused on Benson. The sweat gathering on his upper lip. The grip firm on his gun but the minute waver of the barrel. And his eyes…so uncertain and so damn young… Had Steve ever felt that young?

Steve debated, then straightened. “I had a chat with Captain Gonzalez on the way out to the launch site, Benson. He wanted a few words with you. About whether you had what it takes to do this job.” 

He breathed with Benson. In, out. Remembered the endless days and nights when every breath was a battle. A victory. “I had to answer for you—told him that you would do your duty.”

Watched Benson’s eyes dart around, refocus on him. Steve offered a slow nod. “Right here and now, you get to figure out what that duty is. Following orders, or… You have choices here, Benson. You can go back to security and lie down where you were and keep our secret. You can rouse your commanders and report everything you’ve seen. Or you can try to prevent me from leaving.”

Steve set his jaw. “I won’t surrender. Not here, and not to Thaddeus Ross. So you shoot me in the back if you have to.”

With one more moment of unwavering stares, shared breaths, Steve raised his hands and turned on his heel. Began to march down the corridor. Didn’t turn his head, but listened for the betraying sound of bootsteps pounding on the deck or a trigger being pulled.

He heard nothing.

As he dropped his hands and turned a corner toward the launch area, he found Nat lounging against a bulkhead. He cocked an eyebrow. “Forget the way to the exit?”

Nat tilted her head with a hint of a grin. “Just making sure your boy made the right decision.” 

She shrugged and flicked a wrist as she fell into step. “I figured a Widow’s bite and a quick trip to put Sleeping Beauty back in his bower would be quicker than dragging your heavy, bleeding ass to the jet.”

Steve swept his arm in an invitation to precede him as they reached the ladder to the top hatch. “But he surprised you.” 

Nat paused with one hand on the railing and one foot on the ladder. Her eyes held something secret and warm. “No, he didn’t.”

He shook his head as he followed her up and out. The hovering quinjet stirred the air around them as Nat slammed the hatch lid.

With a shared look, he was squatting and cupping his hands. A step and boost and Nat was launching onto the lowered ramp. He leapt up a moment later.

The others greeted their arrival with tired nods. 

Maria’s voice echoed through the cabin as the ramp began to lift. “You made it just in time.” 

As she looked over her shoulder, Steve could see the clench of her jaw. “President Ellis’s announcement is all over the news. The Sokovia Accords are now the law of the land.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this note before commenting.
> 
> I showed some of the previous comments to my writing group, and the consensus is that they are not constructive criticism, but instead the commenters' attempts to use the comments section as a platform for their own interpretations of the film. I’m following the group’s advice not to provide that platform. I don’t want to moderate comments, so I am implementing a new comment policy:
> 
> If you disagree with this interpretation of characters and events from “Captain America: Civil War,” please read this story as an AU or move on. 
> 
> In the spirit of the MST3K theme song:
> 
> _If you think, "That's not how I see things_   
>  _or how I think that character reacts,"_   
>  _just repeat to yourself "It's not my show, I should really just go back_   
>  _and find another story to comment on." [Twang]_


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